Beneath the Bridge
by Edge of the Sky
Summary: ...is where it ends and begins, where it begins and ends. Arthur never intends to fall off that day, nor does he ever intend to become trapped as a ghost together with the very American idiot that killed him. But serendipity happens, and sometimes, serendipity is a cold-hearted wretch. AU. Horror. Eventual USUK.
1. Ends and Begins

**A/N:** Now before the story starts, here's some warnings. This will eventually be US/UK, in no particular order, which implies homosexuality, bisexuality or whatever you'd prefer to call a slash of this nature. This is an AU fic because I'm a total AU whore, and let's say that there won't be much sunshine and fluff, if that's what you're looking for. Individual warnings will be put before each chapter. Apologies in advance for any mistake in my writing, because apparently, my proof-reading skillz suck.

Rated M for violence, language, gore, death, disturbing contents, and possibly ideologically sensitive contents later on.

If all of that didn't scare you off yet, please read on. :)

**Warnings for this chapter — language, Artie's sarcasm, mention of suicide, and death (for an obvious reason mentioned in the summary)**

* * *

Silhouettes flicker and writhe against the steel beams as the cars zoom by, one after another, headlights blaring and deranged windshield wipers humming.

Serendipity— he decides as he stares at the dark clouds— is a refined young lady.

The rain is crashing down like bullets on his face, dissolving upon contact and trailing down his cheeks like liquid metal. His clothes are soaked to the point of transparency, but this is necessary. This is exactly the type of atmosphere he needs. The man shields his eyes as a passing headlight nearly blinds him.

A hundred forty-eight, he counts. Or maybe that's a hundred and eighty-four. A hundred eighty-_five_ with that gaudy _American_ car. A hundred eighty-_six_ with a suicidal motorcyclist driving _way_ too fast to be safe— the wanker. A hundred eighty-_seven_ with two giant bumper stickers that say "I Heart Zombies" and "Born 2 Fuck"— oh, that's _real_ witticism right there. Profanity's always a charmer. A hundred eighty... wait, what is it? The man rubs his eyes, squinting at the trails of vehicles flying across the road, all so eager to get to the other side of the bridge.

Bloody weather.

He entertains himself with another bumper sticker that says "Insert Witty Statement Here", as if the whole motive behind its existence isn't conspicuous _at all_, before deciding that enough is enough. The man's bones ache underneath the soaked clothes as he forces himself to move. He heaves himself up the metal railing after three tries, nearly slipping from the rain.

Enough is enough.

Standing before the raging sea, he can't help but shudder at the prospect of jumping down, plunging into the cold nothingness.

Scowling, the man irritatedly brushes away a strand of drenched blond hair from his line of vision. Here, he's doing something _serious_, damn it! Nothing— not the _irritating_ hair poking his left eye, not the _blasted wind_ threatening to blow him away, not the rain making everything so damn _slippery_, not the _indifferent_ automobiles zooming, and not the _bars_ on the steel suspension bridge that he is clinging onto for his life— can stop him.

Counting to three, he forces himself to shift from his safe position and into the danger.

It isn't enough.

Breathing heavily— from fear, exhilaration, or some other unfathomably intense emotion— the blond hoists himself over to the other side of the railing. Okay, he tells himself. He can do this. He _has_ to. Erratic nerves are screaming bloody murder in his head, but undaunted, he turns around. The deep water twists and churns below him. Waves crash unrelentingly into the beams that support the bridge, as if unimpressed that some man-made structure has the audacity to hover over the ocean like a god.

This time, he is going through with it. Slowly, green eyes close, and the man embraces the wind and rain swirling around him. Shaky cold hands grip the metal bars as the body slumps forward. Reasons and excuses of a thousand questions and a thousand why's clog his mind.

Today, he is going to greet death with an even gaze. Today, he is going to reach forward and grasp death by its bony, rotting hand and _shake it_.

Today, he is going to contemplate death.

And without any further hesitation, the inner monologue begins.

* * *

**[Beneath the Bridge]  
**...is where it ends and begins.

**Chapter 1**

* * *

It starts like any other rare rainy day in the sunny death-trap known as America. He is Arthur Kirkland's little imbecile of a brother, here to end his life due to misplaced teenage angst and immature temper tantrums—

No, wait. That doesn't sound quite right.

Start again.

He is Peter Kirkland, a young idiotic teenager experiencing _very severe depression_, stupid enough to have the asinine idea of prancing off a fucking bridge.

Hmm.

That seems a little off, thought it's probably the closest he would get for now.

Continuing on, his life is a pathetic slump even though his older brother, Arthur, made _wonderful breakfast_ for him every day, and because he's such a picky brat, he would always refuse to eat the _wonderful _breakfast. Instead, he would repay his dear brother by jumping off a bridge in a lovely imitation of a cliched tragedy. He has friends at school— maybe— and outside of his house, he always does the absolute most idiotic activities of—

Huh. What does Peter do outside of school?

* * *

The man shakes his head. Get your act together!

Facing the melancholic ocean once more and feeling thoroughly wet from the rain, the blond tries again.

* * *

He is Peter Kirkland, a normal teenage boy living in a disintegrating family environment. He has many older brothers, and they would often bully him because he is the youngest. His parents fight all the time, throwing things at each other. He laughs because nobody cares, so he doesn't either. Sometimes the projectiles hit him, but he doesn't cry. The shouting and verbal abuse are much worse. They are actually intentionally meant to hurt.

He would wake up everyday, _ignore_ the lovely and delicious breakfast that Arthur _is so kind to cook up_, head to a prestigious school that he is forced to go to even though his brother would've _jumped at the opportunity to go there in a heartbeat_, do something nobody knows, and come home all bratty by the evening. So maybe he is feeling the blues at times, but _why_ did he have to jump off the bridge even though his brother was _so damn nice to cook him breakfast _in the morning?! Why did the brat have to jump—

* * *

"No! Don't jump!"

Green eyes open in confusion, and the man wonders if it's only his imagination. The phrase is barely audible, obscured by the _pitter-patter_ of the rain and the _vroom_ of the cars nearby. Tentatively, head turns around, not really expecting anything. And _blimey_— he thinks dizzily, blinking and feeling somewhat withdrawn from reality— it seems like he didn't dream up the scream.

The blurry outline of a person is running towards him, shouting and making all sorts of frantic gestures that looks almost comical. Rain puddles splash in mimicry of exploding landmines. What a prat— he mentally scorns— running in slippery conditions like that. But whoever it is, the person certainly runs fast, because in almost an instant, the figure is only a few metres away from him.

Whatever or whoever gave that _prat_ the brilliant idea of running on a _very slippery_ bridge during a day where the rain practically _attacks_ your eyeballs like knives, the blond doesn't know. It's like a catastrophe engineered to happen, just for laughs. There isn't even time to react. He can only widen his eyes as the prat slips on a puddle and crashes into the metal railing. He can only watch as the prat flies over the bars from the force.

And then it's as if he's blown over by a hyperbolic truck.

He can do nothing but watch as the prat crashes into him, making him lose grip on the railing and sending the two flying. He can do nothing but watch as they both plunge into the sea— the wind's howling and the alarms ringing in his head dissonant enough to _hurt_. He can do nothing but watch as they slam into the water, and he's barely cognitive of breaching through the surface as _searing pain_ shots through his body. He can do nothing but watch as the cold nothingness engulf them, stealing away their breaths.

He can do nothing but watch as they both drown.

Feeling the last bit of consciousness tingle away, the man decides to take back what he said before.

Serendipity?

...is a cold-blooded bitch.

* * *

"Get away from me."

"Hey, wait up!"

Arthur Kirkland growls, fist clenched and eyebrows twitching. _Of course_ he's going to stop and wait for the _prat that ruined everything_! Oh, why hasn't he thought of that _brilliant idea_ before? He keeps moving forward in an aggressive pace, although the action is proving to be more and more trying. The cold bites at his innards like vicious worms, and it's taking all of his willpower, pride and _hatred_ to keep his teeth from chattering maniacally.

There's zero chance that he won't catch pneumonia after that lovely little swim in the_ bloody freezing_ ocean, to add to his sour mood.

The blond sneezes, and that seems to be all the pause his insistent pursuer needs to catch up. Because apparently _idiots_ don't suffer from cold like honest good blokes do, and the prat before him is just the _dictionary entry_ for the word "idiocy".

"Listen! I'm really _really_ sorry 'bout what happened. It was really slippery, and—"

It's at times like this when he can fully appreciate the _positively American term_ of "No shit, Sherlock", even though it makes a fine mockery out of the brilliant _British_ classic by Conan Doyle.

Taking a quick step, Arthur brushes by the prat, ignoring the babbling coming from that stupid, big mouth. He eyes the distance to the other end of the bridge. It's still rather far away, but perhaps he can somehow lose the annoying pest after he gets to the more populous area. Once he gets home, he'll lock himself indoor, make himself dry and warm, huddle in bed and just sleep everything away. God knows he deserves a rest. The roar of the ongoing storm beats at his ear drums, and the blinding rain is making him strangely dizzy.

Unfortunately, the _prat_'s rambling is louder.

"—guess I slipped, or something. Pretty damn amazing how we're both uninjured though! Even though we were all epic head-diving into the ocean, Hollywood style! Then it was all _BAM!_, and..."

How is it that they survived? Arthur doesn't know, doesn't care to know, and would rather not _try to know_ at the moment. He's hardly in the mood to put this bizarre miracle on a trial for the sole sake of scepticism.

"...So I was thinkin'— hey. You even listenin'?"

While the other's obnoxious voice and clanking footsteps follow him like an_ unwanted puppy_, Arthur rushes ahead with renewed vigour. How long is this bridge anyways? It can't be helped that he, and unfortunately the git too, has washed up ashore in the side of the ocean his house is _not_ on.

"He—llo? Earth to the grumpy, thick eyebrows dude. Ya listenin'?"

Snappily, Arthur swirls around, emerald eyes burning in spite. "First of all, don't you _dare_ insult my eyebrows." He jabs an accusing finger at the other's face. "And secondly," he crosses his arms, "don't you have anything better to do than following me around like a lost child?"

Finally taking a good look at his pursuer for the first time up close, Arthur immediately notices the height difference between the two of them, being the, regrettably, shorter of the two. The person— _bloody_ American, judging from the accent— is just as soaked as he is, jacket and jeans all very heavy and weighed down. Rain-blotted glasses result in the man looking absolutely ridiculous. That, along with sunny blond hair soaked to the point of hilarity, makes the man all the sillier to look at.

"We-ell! It ain't like I have a name to call ya by." The American idiot grins and sticks out a hand covered by soggy sleeve. "The name's Alfred F. Jones. And yours, eyebrows?"

Arthur stares at the offered hand— or is "offered sleeve" a more terminologically accurate expression?— as if it is the embodiment of all things asinine and evil.

Making a big show of turning around, he promptly walks off, all the more eager to get away. Sadly, this "Alfred" idiot is as literate as a prehistorical rock and can't read _blatantly obvious_ clues, because he's _still being_ stalked by the pathetic, drenched _puppy of an idiot_. Misery loves company, and this idiot _obviously_ wants to make him miserable as well. Arthur's just about to turn around and _politely_ give the _stranger_ an earful, when—

What is that? He frowns. Police siren?

Red and blue lights flashing from a distance confirms it, but what's the police doing here? A traffic accident on the bridge, perhaps?

Then, the Briton's brain finally kicks in and mentally slaps himself silly. _Of course_ the police would be here. Some _responsible_ citizen has probably witnessed their fall and alerted the police. Searchers are probably being sent underneath, attempting to track down their bodies that have been swallowed by the waves. And being a _responsible_ gentleman, he'd better go there and elucidate them on the matter.

He moves closer until he's within hearing distance. A police officer is talking to another one. The former keeps sighing and shaking his head, while the latter is making wide, distraught gestures.

"But what happens if they're still alive? If we call off the search party, ve, it'd be like killing them!"

"Feliciano," the blond officer says in a stern tone. "It is _impossible_ for a human to survive a fall of that calibre, let alone somehow stay alive in water of that temperature all this time."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Arthur interrupts as he makes his way to them. "But I am very much alive. Thank you for your concern."

The policemen don't even bat an eyelash at his manifestation.

"What about the young boy who tried to jump off a few weeks ago?"

"That boy only survived because he landed on the suicide nets that the city hall implemented some years ago, and he was still administrated to the hospital for injuries. According to witnesses, our current bridge jumpers got catapulted out of the net's reach. It's null."

"But this time might be an exception! Please, Ludwig. Give them a chance?"

Because these incompetent policemen _of course_ need to debate over the likelihood of survival even though one of the very people they're searching for is _standing right behind them_. Patience running thin, Arthur raises a hand to tap the closest officer on the shoulder. "Excuse m—"

He freezes.

His arm drops to his side.

"Nothing human can survive that fall," the serious officer growls out at his brunet peer, patience also running thin. "Get your head around it!"

"Looks like they're ignorin' ya," a voice chuckles. Alfred appears and slings an arm around the shorter man. When he receives no response, the sunny blond waves a hand in front of the man's face. "You there?"

The hand is instantly slapped away, sending a resounding slap that's amplified even further by the rain. Alfred leaps back as if wounded, and he makes a mock effort of shaking the pain away. "Ouch. That hurts, y' know."

Arthur pays him no attention and instead, looks around.

As expected, none of the police officers has turned around. None of the spectators with umbrellas did either. The slap has echoed loud and clear, but it fell onto deaf's ears. Expression morphing into a dark, petulant frown, he pushes past the American. He needs time to think, preferably faraway from people and the rain that's beginning to send his nerves into a scramble.

This is just a dream— he tells himself— a horribly realistic nightmare. This is not real.

"Hey. Wha' cha doin', man?" And then, the annoyance is right beside him again, nagging and pulverizing his ears with those infuriating slangs and slurred words.

"Sod off."

"What're you lookin' so glum for?" The prat waves his hand widely, the gesture matching the grin that's equally wide enough to look forced on his face. "You're acting like your pet goldfish died or something."

Grits teeth.

Halts.

Spins around.

Surprised at the shorter man's sudden stop, Alfred trips over a step and has to back up. Suddenly, those grim eyebrows are right in front of him, emerald orbs burning acidic fires.

"Git, I'll show you who died!" And with that, Arthur summons up all the strength in his body, harnessing his _anger and frustration_ to violently push the other off the sidewalk.

Unprepared, the American squeezes his eyes shut on instincts, probably expecting to hit one of the cars prowling across the bridge and die in a traumatic traffic accident that'll end up in some tiny corner of the tabloid or something.

Except, the thing is... he doesn't.

He sails right through.

Alfred looks down in shock, moving various body parts and watching in morbid fascination as they breach through the solid material without resistance. The car leaves, and before he can fully comprehend it, the next car comes slamming _through_ him, like... like he's nothing but _thin air_. This continues for three more cars, until the blond is undoubtedly freaked up, jumping away from the line of traffic.

"Nothing human can survive that fall," the Briton reiterates the policeman's words quietly.

Alfred is still staring at the cars, expression frozen. And as if having the weight of the world on his back, he utters a single, shaky word.

"Ghost."

He looks up at Arthur, and Arthur gazes unsmilingly back.

* * *

At first, it is silent in the same way a funeral march is silent.

Unnervingly silent— Arthur decides, resisting the urge to fidget with his fingers like a _teenage brat_ would fidget with a cell phone. There's something to be said about the rain pelting down on them, each droplet searing a mark onto exposed skin. The water is beginning to make him feel increasingly uncomfortable, and without the loud babbling of the American, all he can focus on right now is the rain.

There's _something_ his mind is blocking out right now. The blond knows that the mind is a clever thing, so he decides to focus on the American who's sprawled like a silly buffoon on the wet cement.

There's a series of quick, indiscernible expression flitting through Alfred's face, each of them fleeting, as if his face can't decide on which one to express. Maybe he's having a seizure from attempting to think. That _idiot_— Arthur snorts, and the derisive noise is enough to finally make the sunny blond notice Arthur's scrutinizing. His face settles into a blank— almost disconcerting— expression.

Then he randomly exclaims: "No way! You're a ghost?"

Least to say, any accusation of the git possibly being a cognitive _thinking_ entity is tragically obliterated from the Briton's brain, because he's having quite a hard time following the logic of that statement. _How in the world_ did the idiot come to the conclusion of _Arthur_ being a ghost when it is the idiot himself who phased through a car?

As if possessed by some form of paranormal— oh, the irony— fear, Alfred leaps back and yelps. "Stay a-away from me, g-ghost! I h-have a... uh." He quickly glances around. Finding nothing, he tries to make himself appear as tall as he can, and his face scrunches up into an expression that is probably meant to be scary. "A gun! Uh, yeah. I h-have a gun in my jacket, a-and I'm not afraid to use it!"

For realistic effects, the idiot puts one hand in his brown jacket, creating a lump that is probably intended to be in the shape of a gun.

Arthur raises an unimpressed eyebrow. After a few long seconds, he asks: "Are you serious?"

"'Course I am! I'm always serious."

Deciding to humour the American, he enunciates each word slowly: "And you're going to hit an alleged _ghost_ with a gun."

"It's, uh." Alfred looks down and up. "It's an awesome gun."

"An _awesome gun_," the other deadpans.

"Yep." Even the idiot himself doesn't seem convinced. "It's magically— nah, genetically engineered! That's right, since science is way cooler than magic. The awesome gun is genetically engineered to be capable of hitting ghosts."

Arthur stares at him.

He stares back.

"And you honestly expect me to believe that?"

Alfred shrugs. "Science is supposed to be convincing, I think."

...Just where is this elusive concept known as _common sense_ nowadays? Arthur's head is spinning. Perhaps it has gone extinct along with the various animals that pollution has killed off in the 21st Century. Any more of this... this _absurdity_, and he might as well do the world a favour and push them both off the bridge and into their death. Oh _wait_— he resists the urge to laugh harshly— he can't!

"Bollocks."

Groaning and rubbing his temples, he decides to walk away right there and then. God knows how frequent he has done it for the short period he is forced to interact with the git. He has enough to deal with right now, without being coerced into entertaining the other.

Bloody hell, he just died!

"H-hey, wait! Ghostly eyebrows dude!"

...His nickname is just growing more and more ridiculous within seconds, isn't it?

"Not that I don't want 'cha to stay the hell away or anything, but where ya goin'?"

"To hell," Arthur replies curtly.

He will try to _get the hell away from the bleeding rain and the American idiot_ first, then maybe he'll drink some tea and take that long belated nap he still owe himself for. That is, if he can still do such things now that his body is nothing more than ectoplasm and ghostly apparition. What can a dead bloke do in this situation?

A hand clasps his shoulder, and with a lovely touch of déjà vu, he finds himself flying all over again.

"Fuck!" Already suffering from a headache, dizziness and the _stupid rain_, the new impact against something as sturdy as a concrete wall is enough to make his head explode. Arthur sees a nauseous spectrum of colours and stars as he staggers. Isn't he dead already? Why does he have to suffer more? Oh, what is this— Torture Arthur Day?

As it turns out, said concrete wall happens to be the _prat_, and said prat doesn't appear to be affected by the impact at all. The damn brute.

"Oh hey. I can touch you!" Alfred exclaims, looking thoroughly fascinated by the fact he's touching a ghost. But Arthur's taking in none of that _bullshit._ Just _who_ does the idiot think he's fooling?

"Of course you can, git." Brusque is the reply, as the shorter man disentangle himself from the other's unintentional headlock. "We both fell into the ocean together."

Everything is irritating him and wearing him down— the oblivious policemen going about their 'rescue' in the background, the curious but callous spectators peeking over the barriers that the police put, the _suffocating_ rain, and the American's little charade of pretence. It makes him want to snap. Frustrated, he grips the other by the American's jacket collar.

"Are you gonna kill me?" asks the American, looking fearful but _not really_.

"Oh, I don't know. I can't exactly murder you, as much as your idiocy is practically vouching for it."

It's time to put an end to this farce.

"Shall I spell it out for you?" Arthur pauses for dramatic effects. "I can't possibly murder you, and you know it."

Oh, look. It's almost theatrical!

"Because you are already dead."

The blank stare he receives makes him sigh in irritation. Oh, the git wants to continue, does he?

"What?"

"You. Are. Dead." The Briton repeats seriously. "Which part of that do you not understand?"

"Uh. The _dead_ and _you_ part. Oh, and the _are_ that connects them together!" Alfred laughs as if there's something _horrendously funny _about this situation that's worth laugh about. "Aw, aren't you funny, ghostly eyebrows dude? It almost sounds like you're telling me that I'm dead!"

* * *

**A/N: **And so, the fun begins. Don't be misled by the first chapter. There's a reason behind the rating and the genre. Just sayin'.

Posted this because inspiration is diving off the deep end without any feedback. The original version of this is written a year or two ago, and I decided to revamp it because I liked the idea. If you find the writing style inconsistent at some parts, then that's probably why. Reviews, comments, constructive criticisms, suggestions, etc. are welcomed and much appreciated.

Penny for your thoughts? ;)

-Edge, _17/08/2012_


	2. Drown and Bleed

**A/N:** Thanks to those who reviewed, fav'd, and alert'd. I reply to reviews by PM, so if you have any question, ask away. Flip a coin. If it's heads, I don't bite. If it's tails, I'll eat you for breakfast. ;) The updates will be weekly, some time around Friday depending on where you live.

Moving on, the true face of this fic is starting to rear its ugly head. And I am _totally not_ giddy like a school girl about it. Promise.

** Warnings for this chapter — language, angst, blood, graphic description of gore, and death**

* * *

Dead.

Dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

"You're hilarious, eyebrows. _Dead_, y' say?"

Somewhere between the first time the possibility of being "dead" has graced his mind and the turmoil that ensues, a cold lump begins to form in Arthur's throat. It's constricting, asphyxiating— a combination of tastes so _bitter_ and _cold_ that it makes him want to puke. It doesn't help that the idiot continues to make a parody out of the word over and over again every time he says it, chanting "dead" like a mantra in his speech. As if it's all a big _joke_.

And somewhere between the searing _rain_ and the memory Arthur's mind is desperately trying to _forget_, the implication finally sinks in.

"We're dead."

What does drowning feel like?

Arthur recalls vignettes of fear eating away at his stomach and the feeling of rapid, pulsating heartbeats. Alarms screech in his brain, trying so hard to grasp at the last line of defence— bliss in ignorance. But even that whittles away, bit by bit as snippets of memory burst forth, and he finally remembers everything.

_Air, air, air. Where did all the air in the world go? Oh God, he couldn't breathe, breathe, breathe damn it! Breathe_— and then he was choking. The more he struggled, the more salty water twisted its way through his trachea and into his lungs like a poisonous snake, sucking away all the oxygen. It was cold, _so bloody cold_ that his insides might as well be ice. It scared him, and worst of all, there is not a _damn thing_ he could have done.

The rain has never seemed so horrifying.

"We're dead." The belated realization sinks like being dumped into a body of freezing, _killing_ water, and he chokes. "And there isn't a single thing we can do about it."

Perhaps it is a combination of resurfaced horror and the sudden phobia of water— suffocating rain, _all around him_— that makes him blindly run off like he does.

"Wait! Where ya goin'?"

The protest of the American is ignored. The squeaking wheels of the cars on the road is ignored. The menial chatters of the police and they continue their fruitless evacuation is ignored. The way his footsteps soundlessly glide across the ground, as if they're _immaterial_, is ignored. The sense of emptiness as he, in his panic, passes through steel beams after steel beams is ignored. The sheer _exhaustion_ of his ghostly body that sags lower with each step is ignored.

And the way his feet doesn't quite touch the pavement as he runs?

Ignored.

Ignored.

_Ignored._

Perhaps this is what drowning really feels like— a whole load of fear, ignorance, not knowing what will happen, knowing that there's not a bloody thing to be done, and an inability to breathe or think rationally.

Only this time, instead of the raging ocean, he is drowning in rain, each droplet like bullet grinding a hole through his skin— tearing a chasm through his mentality.

Drowning, drowning, and drowning.

In _bullets_.

In rain.

Arthur runs and runs.

He can't breathe.

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

...is where we drown and bleed.

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Well, this is a _dilemma_.

Arthur glares at the gaudy yellow "M" displayed on the restaurant menu right above a bored-looking cashier as if it's the personification of all the world's problems and misery.

In retrospect, there are probably better, _more refined_ establishments to bolt into than a fast food restaurant, because let's face it. Arthur has his pride to consider, damn it. But also in retrospect, there are probably more intelligent and logical things to do than to suddenly run off like that due to an equally sudden, irrational fear of the rain.

To add to the insult, the Briton literally _bathed_ in rain back in his beloved city of London! Home is where the heart is, and the rain always fondly reminds him of home. Thus, he finds this recent development to be less than pleasing, especially when rain is his only sense of comfort in the foreign, solar-powered frying pan known as America. If his life is just a joke in bad taste, then—

Oh, who is he kidding? What life? Bollocks. He is _dead_!

Pop goes the the pink bubblegum that the bored cashier girl is chewing, snapping him out of his inner fuming. Looking reluctantly around the fast food restaurant, the ghost gives out a mournful sigh at the demise of his pride of Never Willingly Entering a Place That Sold Grease On Plates. His other pride of Never Being Afraid of Anything Except For The Boogeyman— and that's when he was three!— is also beautifully obliterated when he ran away, mentally screaming bloody murder, from the harmless rain.

The world must be laughing at him right now. The sadist.

Scowling grumpily, Arthur opts to just sit down on one of the empty seats in an empty corner— _far away_ from the rest of the world, because the world apparently hates him. That, and the disease of eating grease might be contagious. Wait, are those fungi growing on the wall? He crinkles his nose in disgust.

Seconds slip away, soon followed by minutes and even hours. The blond watches with a sense of nostalgia as the rain falls, the panel of window separating him from the the droplets. With the encompassing greyness of the sky, the splotches of water, the umbrellas everywhere, and the quiet hum of rain hitting the pavement, he can almost be deluded into believing that he is back in England. The rain dances and dances, and the subtle illusion brings a smile onto his face.

The rain is beautiful.

Then he frowns at the contradiction.

"This is ridiculous," Arthur mumbles, voice irate and increasing in volume as he rants to the patch of fungi growing on the wall. "I am a proud Englishman. Rain is my affinity! To be stuck in _McDonald's_ of all the forsaken places just because I've suddenly developed a ludicrous phobia of _water_..."

He trails off, looking positively mournful.

If fungi are capable of holding conversations, they would have responded in sympathy towards the blond's random outburst and maybe pat his back a little. But fungi being fungi— funny little living patterns on the wall— they merely continue to do, well, whatever they are doing on the wall. Colonizing neighbour tiles, perhaps?

"I miss good ol' England," Arthur continues his very one-sided conversation. There's a pause, as if he expects his untalkative conversation partner to interject something. And when, naturally, nothing happens, he sighs. "At least there, I wouldn't have to resort to talking to patterns on the wall because I didn't have anyone else to talk to. Blimey."

Because yes, talking to mold growing on the wall is _probably_ a sign of insanity, and he should _probably_ be worried. But Arthur likes to blame it on the country he is currently stranded in until he earns enough money for the plane ticket back and ditches his family forever.

He opens his mouth again, ready for another series of complaints that would fall into deaf's ears.

A random tray with burger and fries on it magically manifests right under his nose.

And then, someone sits on him.

...

On hindsight, technically the innocent person— blond, bespectacled and carrying a white ... bear?— hasn't sat on him _per se_, what with the whole "Will you look at that! You're dead and made of ectoplasm!" ordeal. But no, Arthur doesn't care about subtle distinctions between being sat _on_ and being sat _through_, as ridiculous as the notion sounds.

_Nobody_ sits on Arthur Kirkland and gets away with it.

Just as the Briton leaps up up, teeth gritted and eyebrows scrunched in fury, ready to reprimand the daylight out of the perpetrator—

Another person sits down.

Right on top of the bespectacled blond who sat on Arthur.

...

What.

This time, the newcomer towers over both of them. A pale scarf is wrapped around the large man's neck, and unnervingly, his smile never meets his eyes. With an easy swing of an arm, he pushes away the previous burger tray on the table and replaces it with his own.

Hints of red catches the ghost's attention, and Arthur's eyes widen. Are those splotches of _blood_? It certainly doesn't look like the ketchup that the man is currently dipping chips— oh wait, "_fries_"— into, that's for sure.

The blond with the bear shrieks— that being the instinctual self-preserving reaction of someone who is suddenly sat on by an oversized serial killer.

Wary of what is going on, Arthur crawls to the other side of the table, as if it's difficult to get out from under the pile of bodies. Except it _isn't difficult_, considering that he's nothing but a spectre and can just phase right through. But he figures that it's more about the principle of matters than anything else.

Watching the scene unfold, the sandy blond wonders if he should be particularly alarmed by this turn of event. But really, what can a ghost do in these circumstances?

Taking a quick peek at the large man's face, he is taken aback by what he sees.

The aforementioned serial killer actually has the _audacity_ to look spooked. He swirls around, violet eyes deadly glaring. When finding no one, he mutters under his breath in what sounds like hurried Russian. He returns to his burger, unaware of the struggling blond under him.

"P-p-please get up!" The victim squeaks, grimacing painfully as if a thousand kilograms of weight is dropped onto him. "My legs! B-breaking!"

To the bespectacled blond's relief, the pressure on his legs disappear as the Russian stands up, almost knocking the table over due to haste. Before he can fully catch his breath, he is smacked by the giant man's scarf. Glasses half crooked, he looks up confusedly to see the Russian looking wildly around, eyes wide and lips... quivering...?

"What is this?" The man snarls harshly. "Nyet. Who is playing this prank on me?"

Out of nowhere, the man conjures an iron pipe, its length tattered by what appears to be more dried blood.

Bloody hell! Arthur gapes. The man really _is_ a serial killer!

"Speak, or you shall be subjected to brutal beating."

Feeling somewhat light-headed from the bizarre turn of event, Arthur sinks lower on the seat, stopping only when he realizes that he's sinking a little _too_ low and actually going _through the cushion_. The other blond appears to have the same idea, attempting to lean back as far as a bloke being sat on can from the said person who sat on him. Never mind the fact that neither of the two are even seen by the large man. It's all about what the _principle_ ofmatters dictates.

And when a serial killer is added into _any_ equation?

Run.

Or cry.

The bespectacled blond chooses the second option and lets out a strangled yelp, although probably due to the fact that his legs are on the verge of being restructured into flat-bread than anything else. Arthur chooses the hidden third option of standing like a dummy amidst the chaos, playing possum. Except he actually _is_ dead and thus had no need to pretend to be.

The principle of matters is getting old.

"Speak! I am not afraid of you!" snarls the Russian man.

After a painfully long pause, where the only sound is the practically _audible_ noise of heartbeats pounding wildly, someone finally breaks the silence.

"S-sorry!" Eyes squeezed shut, the living blond stutters out. "I w-was sitting here before you sat on m-me. And a-and um, and..."

"_GHOST!_"

The words sends a jolt down Arthur's spine, and his heart proceeds to attempt to commit suicide by diving to the bottom of his stomach. Blimey! The serial killer can see him! He's going to be killed!— except he's dead already, so how can he be deader than dead anyways?

While contemplating the logistics behind killing someone already dead, he jolts out of it when he notices that the Russian is not looking at him. Instead, the man is staring at the panicking blond underneath him, skin turning pale as if he has just seen a ghost.

Slowly, the frightened blond opens his eyes. "Um, pardon?" He asks, looking confused and clutching at his teddy bear. But his voice is drowned out.

"G-ghost!" the Russian makes a noise that oddly sounds like a yelp, in the same way that one would think a madman's cry sounds like a laugh. Thus it's with much scepticism that Arthur regards the man's reaction. "This place is haunted!"

Arthur, being the _real_ ghost in this situation, frowns in confusion. "Wait, what?"

The timid blond reaches an indecisive hand out for the retreating man. "W-wait. I'm n-not a ghost!"

"The lad's right," Arthur interjects in puzzlement, not that anybody can hear him. "I'm the ghost here, not him."

"M-my name is Matthew, a-and you were just sitting o-on me, a-a-and..."

But the Russian isn't listening. Abandoning his food, the large man makes a mad dash for the exit, so fast that one would think he's being chased by an axe-wielding mass murderer— oh, the _irony_. The door slams shut with a force larger than necessary, eliciting some strange stares from the other customers. But soon, conversations and burger-munching start up again as if none of that has actually happened.

In all honesty, the Briton isn't entirely sure if any of that has happened either. He figures that he's either in Lewis Carroll's nonsensical Wonderland, America's infamous Twilight Zone, or the loony bin with foam coming out of his mouth right now. Hopefully it's not all three.

"Am... I really that... invisible?"

The quiet voice breaks Arthur out of his reverie, and he looks up to see this "Matthew" fellow sitting with a slump on his shoulders on the other side of the table. Two shaky arms are snaked around the weird teddy bear, clinging onto it like a life line. The boy, looking younger than the Briton by perhaps two or three years, adorns a weary, self-depreciating smile on his face. For someone so young, he looks drained by life and all the misgivings.

What's the most striking of all is the lad's disillusioned, blue eyes behind the spectacles. It reminds him of that idiot—... Alfred, was it?

"And to think that I thought it's the o-only positive thing with my b-b-brother...b-brother's..." The voice trembles, uttering the last part so softly that the words blur together into a incoherent whisper. Tears fall, absorbed by the inanimate bear, the boy's only companion in the lonely corner. Sorrow claws inwards, transforming into self-hatred as he lashes out. A fist slams against the table, but even that is feeble and unheard in the noisy restaurant. "Stupid! Selfish! Idiot! How c-c-could... could I e-even t-t-think like th-that?"

Arthur shuffles awkwardly in the seat across from the boy. He feels like he's watching something private, and that he shouldn't be there. But glued to the seat he remains, as Matthew sniffles and blubbers on.

"And here I am, t-talking to patches of mold on the wall! How pathetic, right?— sitting here and pitying myself like this." The boy chuckles. His body trembles, appearing to be tired from this simple motion. He takes of his glasses and wipes his tear away. Fiddling absentmindedly with the frame, he continues: "Nobody knows what it feels like. Getting bumped into, being sat on like I don't exist..."

"Strictly speaking, you sat on me too as if I didn't exist," Arthur says, eyeing the miserable blond in front of him with sympathy. "But I feel sorry for you, lad. I do."

"Being a ghost sucks," Matthew complains to the fungi on the wall some more. "It's like everyone just acts like you're not there. Nobody can hear what you're saying at all."

"Tell me about it."

Both sighs simultaneously and looks out the window as the rain washes everything away.

One is a ghost in the sense that nobody except a ghost can hear him, and another is a ghost in the sense that even the allegorized ghost cannot hear him.

* * *

Once all the storm clouds within a ten kilometre radius have dispersed, the sun returns with a renewed vengeance to terrorize the world with its warm embrace and cancerous UV rays. Looking as happy as a flower being touched by sunlight for the first time, Arthur crawls out of hiding— _with dignity_, might he add. He bids goodbye to Matthew, who remains like a puffy-eyed statue in that isolated corner of the restaurant. While he doesn't fully comprehend why the boy chose _McDonald's_ of all place to soliloquize in, one can't deduct points for effort.

It leaves a bad taste in Arthur's mouth. For the first time, he is forced to face the fact that the disadvantages of being a ghost isn't solely exclusive to not being able to drink afternoon tea anymore. And bitterly, he understands just how it feels like to not exist to everyone else.

"Excuse _me_!" The blond swirls around to glare at the hurried business man who runs _right through him._ He gives the same treatment to the one of the giggly teenage girls who nearly gives him a pseudo bitch slap in her obliviousness, even if he wouldn't be able to feel it anyways. Grumbling in irritation, he shakes his head and moves forward, only to be passed through by a _motorcycle_ this time, spewing out a trail of black fumes in its wake.

"_Bloody hell!_"

Sputtering as he experiences a mini cardiac arrest for what is probably the twentieth time that day, it takes a while for Arthur to regain his bearings.

After thoroughly cursing at the cars on the street with all the swear words available in the English lexicon and calling every pedestrian in his itinerary a "wanker" _thrice_, the Briton finally manages to arrive at his intended destination, his throat very much worse for wear.

It almost makes him feel _lonely_, because nobody turned around and shouted back.

Arthur stares forlornly at the house. Hazel brown walls. Door. White-rimmed windows. Balcony. Dark rooftop. It's normal— _too normal_, as if his life hasn't been flipped upside down within twenty-four hours. Although in retrospect, he feels ridiculous for expecting some sort of change to this place that is called his "home". It's like expecting the universe to collapse on itself when you sleep and reconstruct itself when you wake up.

Well, since he's nothing but a ghost now, he might as well play the part.

Phasing through solid walls still gives him the shivers, but the blond has never been so glad to see the dingy state of their living room. His favourite antique tea set is placed in a glass case of a shelf, the only memorabilia from his beloved England. The smell of his mother's specialty, Yorkshire pudding, hits his nostrils, making his mouth water. The antique clock indicates seven thirty-eight, and as usual, all of his siblings are gathered at the neat little table that's too small to fit them without squeezing.

No. Not all of his siblings. Arthur notes this with a dark frown, fond feelings and sentiments disrupted.

Peter...

The kitchen door opens, and his mother enters, wearing her trademark smile. It's a thinning of her lips— a little too flat to be happy, a little too wide to be genuine. Having lived with her all these years, Arthur knows better than to trust that smile, but nevertheless, he relishes it while simultaneously feels tortured by it at the same time— like any other sense of familiarity and stability his home brings.

His brothers grumble, not a single one of them looking forward to the family dinner ritual. Arthur hops down onto his usual seat, noticing belatedly that it's been pushed out of the circle as if he's not even a part of the family anymore.

"Move over, prats. That's my spot."

Nobody hears him.

"Eat up, poppets. It's your _favourite_ today— puddings," Mrs. Kirkland gushes. "Don't hold back. I made enough for everyone and more."

"Man. We should'a just ordered pizza or something."

"Or that Chinese place a few blocks from here."

Grinding his teeth, Arthur retorts: "Don't be rude. Mother worked hard for this."

Again, nobody hears him.

"Don't be that way, love. At least try some before placing your judgement."

The three brothers proceed to glare at the tray of black pile of cinders, otherwise known as the _delicious ambrosia that is their mother's cooking_, as if it would grow legs and move. Arthur himself can attest to the wonderful taste of the food. But judging from the variety of dismayed looks and scrunched up noses, they don't seem to share his good opinion. The Briton's not surprised.

These fools' taste buds are simply not refined enough to enjoy the delicacy that is his mother's cooking. After all, Arthur has inherited the secret art of cooking from the master herself!

"Ye-ah, no way." His eldest brother laughs abruptly. "C' mon. I got a date soon. I'll just take my leave now."

"I should've just skipped this. There's a party goin' down in Bonnefoy's place. Shit. Why did I come home for this crap?"

Amidst his brothers' complaints and his own unheard rebukes, Arthur feels annoyance growing, adding to the accumulation of stress within the past twenty-four hours. He opens his mouth, ready to spew out another series of sharp-tongued retorts, until...

"Allistor, sit. Down. _Now!_"

His mother's face has transformed, a dark crazed expression on her face.

The eldest brother flinches, waving his hands innocuously in the air as if to show that he surrenders. Scowling but nonetheless compliant, the man plops back onto his seat.

"You too, Dylan."

Dylan looks ready to protest, but another venomous glare makes him crack too.

Turning to the third brother as if nothing has happened, Mrs. Kirkland smiles sickly sweet again. "A pudding, Cailean?"

"Uh, I'll take one. Thanks."

The conversation dies down, leaving food to be chewed in awkward silence. Not a glance is exchanged. No talking about what they have done today. Nothing.

Good, ol' dysfunctional family. Arthur sighs. These family dinners— commonly referred to as A Trip to The Torture Chamber by his brothers behind closed doors— are still a regular occurrence, because all of them are scared shitless of their mother. Sometimes, he thinks that the only reason they have sticked together for so long is just to piss each other off. Good, ol' _insane_ family.

For a second, it makes the sandy blond forget that he is dead, and that lapse is long enough for him to commit a mistake. "So, has anybody visited Peter in the hospital today?"

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it does when not even a head turns to face him.

"Hey," is casually said in between bites. "The table ain't as crowded today."

A brief pause, then—

"Huh. You're right. We missin' someone?"

Cailean puts his fork down. "Say, you guys noticed anything lately? There hasn't been anybody makin' crappy breakfast for us in the morning."

"Now tha' ya ment'n 't. I hav'n't smwelled anythin' tha' bad fer a while. Huh, gwood ridd'nce, I say."

"Dear, swallow and chew before you talk."

That's all they touch upon in terms of Arthur's disappearance.

And it shouldn't hurt because Arthur hates his brothers _just_ as much as they hate him, if not more. At the face of these insults, he should laugh the same way Peter always laughs in response— a little too harshly and a little too blankly. But he doesn't. He can't deny it.

It hurts.

Because he misses being heard. He misses being acknowledged. He misses drinking Earl Grey on a sunny afternoon day while reading fantasy novels. He misses walking in the rain, and he misses England. He misses saying "Good day!" to acquaintances with both of them grumbling "What an asshole," once out of hearing range. He misses knitting and cooking breakfast that nobody appreciates. He misses Peter's moody complaints. He misses insulting his brothers and having them insult back. He misses little things. He misses big things. He misses being alive.

It _hurts_.

A shudder writhes through the ghost. Distracted, he's barely cognizant of the sound of doorbell ringing and Allistor getting up to open the door. The blond clutches at his heart, entire body tingling in a strange, unpleasant way. Taking five deep breaths, he attempts to calm down, his mind a fuzzy mess. Thinking hurts, so he fixates his concentration on the beautiful antique tea set on their shelf. The pieces are pristine and perfect, reflecting a gold hue in the sunlight.

"Aw, hell! The police. What did one of us do now?"

"Sorry to bother you this evening. Are you a family member of Arthur Kirkland?"

Leaning against the door frame, Allistor groans. "Fuck. That crazy loon finally murdered someone, didn't he? I swear I know nothing 'bout it, and if he's tryin' to frame me as an accomplice, don't listen. That brat's been wearin' the biggest tinfoil hat of the fucking century ever since he was six."

Arthur sees red.

The tension built in these past hours finally explodes, and all he sees is red, red, that _beautiful tea set_, and _red_. Rage clouds his mind, and Arthur clenches his fists so tightly that they _hurt_. Teeth grind together until one tooth scrapes open his flesh, taste of blood flooding his senses. Enshrouded in _anger, agitation and hatred_, he barely hears his mother yelping in surprise. He doesn't notice Dylan and Cailean's wide eyes, nor does he see the rattling eating utensils and furniture. _Then there's the beautiful tea set_.

His body trembles. The _world_ trembles, and it takes a while for him to realize that it's not all in his head. When he does, he's confused, and—

_Crash!_

The echoes of a pained scream measure the dead silence that follows.

What happened? Staring blankly at the shock and slight fear on the policeman's face, Arthur's mind does not comprehend. That man with hair gelled back looks familiar, he faintly notes. Then he looks down.

Allistor...

What is his brother doing, lying there? The wanker is going to catch a cold, that silly fool. Green eyes regard the scene in a trance-like state, as if he's in a dream. He tilts his head in puzzlement, and finally, he sees the broken shards. Things click. Green pupils dilate, growing larger and larger.

His tea set.

The red.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god_—

He's going to be sick.

Habits and instincts cause him to dash off, blindly slamming through walls and into the washroom. Tripping over his own feet twice, the Briton catches himself on the cool seat of the toilet. He shudders as if hit. Eyes close, and on the back of his eyelids, he can still see it.

Oh god, _he sees it._

His elder brother was lying on the linoleum floor, blood and porcelain scattered around his head like a halo. Bleeding wounds after bleeding wounds deformed the man's face and flesh, decorated by the shards that were embedded into sickly complexion.

It was macabre.

Blood pooled like a _fountain_ out of the cracked skull, flooding into those lifeless, dissected, fish-like _not_-eyeballs. Allistor's nose and ears bled crimson. A cut glazed through the right cornea, and the left eye socket was destroyed, the handle of his favourite tea cup looped through it like an ear ring through an ear piercing. Arms were pinned down by ceramic pieces like a _fucking splayed butterfly_ on a dissection tray, cut so deep that the bones were showing up.

And amidst it all, the beautiful porcelain teapot sits _innocuously_ in the destroyed cavity that had been the man's had been a gurgle, and one of his brother's fingers twitched twice, like one last feeble attempt to cling to consciousness. Then, inexplicably, the body grew still.

"Fuck!" Arthur screams. He punches the tiles, trying to destroy the image in his head, but the fist goes through. He tries again and again, hitting nothing. "Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck_..."

The supporting arm on the toilet seat weakening, Arthur slumps forward, resting his cheek on the toilet seat. His stomach churns and twists like a cauldron of shock, fear and guilt. Sick to the bones, he faces the water. It reflects the half-crazed look on his ghostly face, and he wants to puke. But he doesn't. He can't.

Because he's no longer human. He's a ghost, and that's what ghosts do.

Ghosts _kill_.

Staring at his _far too pale_ hands, a shudder courses through the blond's body.

And for the first time in his entire life, Arthur is horrified to death of himself.

* * *

**A/N:** Just planting some hints and introducing some casts that you'll be seeing again in future chapters. So now you know that being a ghost isn't all puppies and sunshine. The names for Arthur's brothers come from the Hetalia fan-wiki, 'cause creativity apparently likes to play hooky with me. I'm still new to this multi-chapter fic thing, so tell me if it's confusing.

We're not done yet, and I would like to tack a "Bwahaha!" sound effect at the end of this sentence in commemoration of how crazily happy I am to type that. After all, there's more to the genre that this fic resides in than a lil bit of gore. Dunno if it's enough to vouch for the M rating, but I'll just play it safe.

Al and Art are gonna meet again in the next chapter. Expect some sparks. And drama. And bantering. And astronomical explosions.

Penny for your thoughts?

-Edge, _24/08/2012_


	3. The Bell Tolls

**Warning for this chapter **—** nothing explicit this time. Just language, the usuals.**

* * *

In a way, attending your own funeral is a lot like watching a bad sitcom— not that Arthur can tell you what watching a bad sitcom is like, because no, he doesn't watch them! But nevertheless, a line of similarity can be drawn from his experience of watching _other _blokes watch bad sitcoms.

At times, you would snort in amusement out of vague acknowledgement that it _might've_ been funny, if only it isn't so bad. Other times, the comedy would be within the region known as So Bad That It's Good, and you might burst out in hilarity just for the sake of it. But every single other instance?

Arthur thinks he might as well start crying.

Being a ghost really puts a different perspective on things. Standing in front of your own corpse while others are crying over it does too. There's something to be said about the way his distant acquaintances and co-workers are bawling buckets, while his family and friends remain stoic throughout the whole ceremony. Arthur watches perplexedly as an old woman starts trembling like she's experiencing a seizure and shedding more tears than the entire gathering of people does.

When Francis Bonnefoy— that bloody frog co-worker of his— comes to the old lady's assistance, it is revealed that she mistakenly came to the wrong funeral!

_Of course._

Nobody would cry for him like that after all, and his brother is only slightly more popular than he is. It's a Kirkland curse.

Even though he doesn't recognize a third of the party that arrived, none of that really matters to Arthur. They might as well have brought movie theatre popcorn to toss at his rotting physical body, for all he cares. For the majority of the ceremony, he hangs over Allistor's closed casket like a gargoyle, feeling as heavy as stone. Because he knows he doesn't deserve the kind words they speak to him.

Because he killed Allistor.

Guilt hurts even more after a week of nobody blaming him for what he has done— a week of nobody even _knowing_ what he has done— leaving him with no distraction from the self-hatred jeering at him in the corner of his mind.

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

...is where the bell tolls.

**Chapter 3**

* * *

"...Miss these brilliant and talented men. They will remain in our hearts forever," the speech continues, droning on in the background like a persistent buzzing that never goes away. Instead of listening, green eyes hover over the two caskets laid side by side in the funeral house. One is sealed shut, and another is open.

_Allistor Kirkland_ and _Arthur Kirkland_, the engraved names read.

Seeing his own cold and unmoving body, a shiver course through Arthur. The sandy blond hair on _its_ head is neatly combed back in a way that he has never been able to get the rebellious strands to while alive, and the corpse adorns a neat black suit. Pale fingers are intertwined, placed right above the unresponsive heart. There's some hints of powdery make-up applied to _its_ face, likely to hide the hideous scars and scratches from the fall. The rosy complexion makes _it_ appear alive, like a sleeping _angel_ surrounded by flowers in a casket of white.

...Or some other cheesy image like that.

Faintly, he wonders if it's logical to be jealous of his _own corpse,_ because it's rather sad that he looks ten times better dead than alive. But wait. Something seems off here. The eyebrows—

Arthur gapes, eyes wide in disbelief.

They actually _trimmed_ the eyebrows! _How dare they?_ He's going to haunt whoever... _desecrated_ his corpse for the rest of that person's vile, pathetic existence!

Seething in fury, he doesn't notice that the speech has ended, and individual people are stepping up to give their final words to the departed. His mother suddenly appears in front of the coffin, startling the daylight out of him when she suddenly bursts out into tears.

"Arthur!" She wails, dropping to the ground and clutching at the cadaver of her son. Still sobbing, she begins to talk, words shaky and barely coherent. She babbles on and on about what a good child he was, the potential he had in following her cooking legacy, and every single memory that comes to mind of him.

The strings of words tug on his heart, making tears sting his own eyes. _Mum_...

"I can still remember the day Arthur did all of our laundry for the first time," his mother sniffles, the words slurring together as she continues. "What wonderful days t-those were. All the clothes turned pink, and he said the faeries did it! He and his brothers were l-laughed at for days by his friends, but I know the darling boy meant well." She has to pause in the reminiscence to find her voice again. "Then there w-was this," she wipes away a stray trail of tear, "time when Arthur introduced me to his imaginary friend, the Flying Mint Bunny—"

"Mum!" Arthur exclaims, horrified at the poorly-muffled snickers coming from the crowd. "You promised not to tell anyone that!"

Of course, nobody cares about the humiliation of a dead man. He might as well be wearing a clown wig and tap dance on top of the caskets naked. _None of them_ would see.

At the end of Mrs. Kirkland's long sorrowful rant, her face morphs back into a neutral expression, as if she hasn't been crying her eyes out a second before. By now, the ghost is more than glad that she is returning to her seat and not spilling out his secrets to the entire world with a metaphoric megaphone.

Next, someone with brown hair parts from the crowd. After a series of accidental tumbles and curses, the man stands up, revealing himself to be one of Arthur's brother. Standing awkwardly in front of the open coffin, he repeatedly opens and closes his mouth, looking lost and dazed.

"Hey, Art'. So you're dead, huh," Cailean finally says, fiddling with his hand like he doesn't know what to do with them. Eventually, he just lets them hang at his sides. "Wow, I'm bad at this." Pause. "So I think this is a stupid custom, and you're probably laughing at us right now from up there." He smiles wryly, shuffling his feet uncomfortably in the silence. "...Yeah."

The brunet rubs the corner of his eyes, as if trying to erase something there.

"Damn it, dust in my eyes." Another pause. "So uh, by the way, the 'brows trim was my idea. Guess what? You look ten times prettier this way. We're all surprised."

Arthur gapes. So that was _his_ idea! And _ten times_ _prettier_?! _That wanker must have a death wi—_

"Figured it might piss you off so badly that it wakes you up from the dead." Cailean shrugs nonchalantly, but the tinniest hint of emotion escapes from his carefully controlled facade. "Guess that was a stupid idea. ...Yeah."

His brother looks contemplatively at the cadaver's shaved eyebrows for a few seconds, as if disturbed by some details in them, then he turns away.

"Well, bye."

Swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, Arthur watches the man fade back into the crowd. It leaves him with a tight feeling in his chest, and the mixed emotions are enough to make him utterly speechless.

...Maybe he'll let it go this time. But _just this time_, because the next transgression against his eyebrows, that wanker is _dead_.

Dylan comes up next, two hands in his pocket as if to play cool with his unaffected demeanour. Unlike Cailean's uncertainty, he doesn't dawdle.

"'Sup, bro. How's your life being dead treating ya? Wonder if you and Allistor are annoying the hell outta each other right now." He pauses, as if expecting a reply and snorting when he receives none. "Now listen, I'm not one for sentimental talks, even if your girly self likes it." He snickers, but it sounds forced. "That won't change even if you're dead, y' hear? You're still that naggy, annoying lil brother of ours." He pauses and scratches his neck. "I'll admit that we all miss ya, wherever you are now."

Then, as if compensating for the admittance, the man adds:

"But don't misunderstand, your breakfast still sucks."

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, but his throat is dry. The lingering bittersweet bile from hearing one confession after another has successfully killed his voice, and what exits his lips, instead, is a quiet hiss.

"Oh, by the way," Dylan suddenly swirls around, nodding his head at Arthur's corpse. "They couldn't let Peter outta the hospital, so here's a message from him. He says you're a— and I quote— '_dumbass meanie motherfucker'_ for dying, and that you should '_go eat shit_.' That's all." He shakes his head. "I swear, that brat swears more than you do."

As Dylan wade back into the crowd, the practised anger at the insults dissolves into a softer emotion that he refuses to name. Something stings at the corners of the ghost's eyes, and he doesn't want to acknowledge this _something, _as if acknowledging it would make it more _real_.

_Tears_, he thinks in surprise, furiously wiping away a trail of wetness going down his cheek.

_Ghosts can still cry_.

Because as dysfunctional of a family he has, they have put up with each other all this time. Because even though their honest words are laced with mockery, it fails to conceal the undertones of affection in the insults. Because even though his family hates him, they still _care._ And _that,_ is enough to make something inside him crumble.

"You bloody _prats_!" Arthur yells, lashing out. "I hate you all! Why couldn't you all just act indifferent _like usual_? Why did you have to... to..."

His throat clams up again, and the sentence is left unfinished.

The event proceeds smoothly afterwards. His family also talks to Allistor's closed casket, their words equally flippant with a dripping venom of fondness. The funeral march later brings them to the site of burial, in a peaceful graveyard with green grass. Before the coffin closes, the ghost cautiously pokes his corpse, as if expecting it to jump up and bite his finger off. Or even more bizarrely, for him to be sucked back into the body.

Nothing happens.

Arthur watches his dead body vanish from view as the coffin lid lowers, and he imagines being trapped like that in the dark and confined space. He imagines eventually decomposing, skin and flesh gnawed on by detrivores, mapping out the trajectory of Hamlet's king through the intestines of a worm. He imagines the skeletal frame that would be left behind, like one of those cackling, creepy toys you'd see being hung on walls during Halloween.

There's a sense of finality as the coffin is lowered into Earth, and for a brief moment, he expects himself to feel claustrophobic.

But there's nothing. Arthur feels nothing as the corpse disappears from view forever. Life continues to move forward, the gathering eventually disperse, there's a small excerpt of the funeral in some remote corner of a tabloid, and it's a typical sunny day in the United State of America.

* * *

By some sheer bout of coincidence or Lady Luck's mischief, Arthur remains at the graveyard for an hour longer. The ghost hovers over his brother's grave expectantly, as if waiting for another supernatural apparition to congeal out of nothing. Eventually, he gives up. Maybe it doesn't work that way, and not every dead man becomes a ghost. After all, that American is the only one he has encountered so far. Perhaps there are special conditions, just like how he can sometimes touch a material object if he tries hard enough.

There is still quite a lot he doesn't know about being a ghost. His apology will have to wait until later.

As Arthur hovers above the grass, gliding over all the tombstones for a faster route to the exit, a figure squatted near the entrance catches his attention. Upon closer inspection_,_ and bloody hell_,_ that bloke looks a lot like someone he doesn't want to _meet_ right now.

And by some sheer bout of coincidence or Lady Luck's mischief, it _is_ the very person.

"Fancy meeting ya here, 'brows."

So the world likes to toy with him— that's old news. Nevertheless, he still find some form of masochistic comfort by mentally grumbling about it, because some divine force out there _is definitely_ having fun at his own expense. Arthur wishes the Earth would just swallow him up right now because _blimey—_ his eyes are still puffy, aren't they? Unsteady fingers hastily wipe any trace of tears off his face, lest the lad accuses him of actually _crying_!

"So," he clears his throat, attempting to act composed. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Same thing as you are, probably." Alfred jabs a thumb in the vague direction where another crowd of people are huddled, the commotion loud enough to even be heard from here. "Crashin' my own funeral. Definitely a new party scene for me, but well, at least it's something to check off on my bucket list. Fun experience, eh?"

"_Wonderful_," Arthur drawls sarcastically. "Trust us to be buried in the _very same_ graveyard on the _very same_ day. Now we just need a pair of matching rings, and we'd be a jolly good pair of newlyweds!"

The boy blinks, then he bursts out in laughter.

"Hey, it's not too late for me to get on my knees and propose!" the sunny blond jokes along. He then clears his throat, taking on a mock-serious voice. "Excuse me, sir. Do you, Artie McFuzzybrows, take the Amazing-Alfred-Fucking-Jones to be your lawful husband?"

"No," is the flat, unanimous rejection.

Alfred drops, pretending that an arrows has been shot through his heart. "You hurt me, McFuzzybrows! How can you be so cruel, darling wifey?"

"With much sadism, affection and joy, poppet." The Briton tries to hide his amused smile, in spite of the outrage at being called a wife. "Perhaps you'll learn the beauty behind the art of sarcasm one day."

"'_Perhaps'_," the American mocks with a fake British accent.

Rolling his eyes at the antics, Arthur's attention is momentarily diverted by a tiny detail. Throughout the conversation, the lad keeps shooting distracted glances over at the growing crowd gathered for the funeral ceremony. Each time, the boy's expression becomes unreadable, until the forced grin returns with renewed vengeance, like a switch that has been flipped. And the cycle repeats all over again.

That grin isn't as wide as usual. In fact, Alfred's normal puppy-dog face seems almost... wilted.

The Briton frowns. "What's wrong?"

The other ghost jolts, as if he isn't expecting the question. Arthur can't imagine why, to be honest. The boy wears this sad, drawn-out look like a fretful _child_ whose _pet snail_ has gotten ran over— or something equally inane. He'd be damned to not comment on it.

"What are you talking about?" Alfred recovers, beaming so broadly that any wider, the grin would probably tear a new one. Then his face would permanently be etched with the bloodied grin of a Cheshire Cat. "Weirdo."

"What would be weird is if you aren't affected by any of this," Arthur snipes back, perplexed. "It _is_ your own funeral, after all."

For the first time, the corners of Alfred's mouth loosen, drooping down. Without the ridiculous smile, he appears more mature— darker even. Arthur rather likes it.

The lad should smile less, especially when it's so obvious that he doesn't want to.

"It is, isn't it?" He chuckles weakly, running a hand through his hair. "Funny how much I've been trying to deny it at first. I even made that thing up about the ghost-hitting gun. I didn't want to face it." As he speaks, he takes off the pair of glasses and lightly waves it around. "I'm dead. You're dead. We're both ectoplasm, and it's all my fault, isn't it?"

Blue eyes meet green ones.

"Sorry."

Due to the lack of spectacles, the rings of dark blemish under the sky blue eyes become more apparent. Combined with unnatural paleness, for the first time, the lad truly has the appearance of a ghost. His posture is rigid, demeanour weighted down with remorse and guilt.

...Much like Arthur, really.

Half-heartedly, the Briton tries to remember the fear and the smouldering anger at being killed. He tries to rekindle the irritation and contempt he previously held towards the American, but they're not there anymore. Suddenly, the image of Allistor's death flits through his mind, forcing him to blink rapidly to dispel it.

_After all, who is he to judge?_

"Let the bygones be bygones, lad." The Briton sighs, suddenly weary from it all. "You had good intentions, I suppose, however misguided your methods were."

The boy stares at him, looking puzzled and lost. "I killed you, y' know. I'm your killer. I-I..." out of panic, the words scramble, "you... I mean- kill... No, that's not what I meant. I-I mean —yeah, I _killed_ you. Aren't you supposed to hate me?"

That makes Arthur laugh out loud, because isn't that what he was thinking a little while ago? _His family is supposed to hate him. Intentionally or not, he still killed Allistor_. But they don't know, nor will they probably ever know. And his apology will remain unheard for the rest of his supernatural existence.

"I would be a hypocrite if I do that." The boy still adorns a blank look, but he doesn't explain any further than that. "Now, is that why you are sitting so far away from your family and friends? While annoying, I admit that you are a—," he struggles to find the right word, "_decent_ lad. I'm certain that they will know it is all an accident, and you didn't intentionally push someone off a bridge in a gaudy attempt of joint suicide."

"Wait. What are you—"

The panicked tone is ignored as the Briton tugs the other up by the hoodie sleeve, heading straight to where the funeral service for Alfred F. Jones is taking place. People tend to be surprised by the strength behind his death grip, and he takes advantage of that.

"_Stop!_ I can't—"

"Nobody will blame you, Jones."

The sunny blond struggles in a feeble attempt to resist. "You don't know about that!"

"Really," Arthur snorts. "I am quite sure that all of your fears are groundless."

There's a haunted look in the sky blue eyes as the boy insists, "No, you really don't know. You really don't fucking know! I can't! I just..." he trails off, finishing lamely, "can't."

"Maybe I don't know." Burning green eyes turn around, and a finger is jabbed at his chest. "But _you_ will never know what your family and friends think of you, unless you quit being a bleeding _prat_ and summon up the courage to _follow me_."

After that, Alfred grows silent, compliantly letting himself be led across the clearing. But under the guise of whispers of wind, Arthur thinks that he hears the boy's fearful mumble:

"You don't know... You really have no fuckin' idea..."

* * *

**A/N:** Ugh. Not happy with this chapter, but I'm getting sick of looking at it. Suffered a block through the whole writing process, and nothing seems to flow right. :x The creativity drain known as school is starting again, so I'm switching the updates to once every two weeks. Can't let the quality drop, now can I? (Then again, it seems like the quality's dropping already, bleh.)

As usual, a penny for your thoughts? Feedback is helpful and much appreciated.

-Edge


	4. Kind and Cruel

**Warning for this chapter — language, mention of drug usage, and nothing that important. Just the usuals, really.**

* * *

Arthur still remembers back when he was a five-years old, all clumsiness and limbs like a walking wreckage waiting to be fulfilled. Those have been the good days, when he hated the rain back in London as every snotty-nosed kid stuck indoors _should,_ instead of loving it out of some twisted sense of obligation towards his former country. America neatly messed that arrangement over. Up became down. Left became right. Hate became love, and love became a slimy black-eyed leech ready to suck your heart dry.

While he has never _been_ in love, those words still ring true like a harbinger of what's about to come.

...Not that Arthur knows it. He only thinks the metaphor is aesthetically pleasing— a thought which he would wish to take back in the days to come.

The blond also remembers something that his mum has said to him back then. In those days, she didn't act like a glassy doll-eyed automaton with a cry too fake and a smile too wide. Once in a while, she would act like every other sane mother, cradling her children and fussing over their well-being. But the most memorable conversations happened when she was on antipsychotics, otherwise known in his childhood as Those Weird Pills That Makes Mum Act Even Weirder.

Vague memories flash before his eyes, until they transform into a full sequence.

"Sometimes the nicest people are the biggest meanies." She squeezed his cheeks, wearing that vacant drugged look. The young Arthur never understood his mum when she acted like that. "To be cruel, you have to be kind. To be kind, you have to be cruel."

"Does that mean I can take the biscuit?" he asked, fidgeting uncomfortably. That was all he wanted back then, really. That plate of biscuits on the kitchen table. His mother wasn't making any sense.

"You need to be _meaner_, Artie." Chipped nails stretched his pinched cheeks, causing him to wince slightly. "You need to be _uglier_. Be a _monster_. That's how you'll know people around you aren't pretending to love you, pretending to care."

He didn't understand, but what he _did_ understand was that he really _really_ wanted that biscuit on the plate. So he said, "Okay, mum."

Now that Arthur is twenty-two, he knows better than to trust his mother's words during an episode. The medication never worked. But little Arthur took his beloved mum's words to heart. He tried to be meaner, tried to make people hate him, and as a result, received a black eye the next day when he pushed a girl he liked into the sandpit.

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

... is both kind and cruel.

**Chapter 4**

* * *

"—ows? Hey, Artie! Artie? _Arthur_?"

"What?" Jolted out of his reminiscence, green eyes blink rapidly. His gaze lands on the frowning face of Alfred. A hand is still on his shoulder, as if about to shake him.

"You zoomed out there for a bit, man. You okay?"

He brushes the concern off. "I'm fine. Just remembered something..." Trailing off, Arthur raises an eyebrow at the other. "Shouldn't I be asking _you_ that question? We are, quite literally, at your funeral, after all."

"Just," the American seems to struggling to get his voice to work, "—peachy."

The two ghosts stand together side by side behind the crowd of living, mourning for the dead. It appears that Alfred's corpse has been laid under earth already, but many people have chosen to dawdle behind. They are weeping openly, none of them even attempting to hide their sorrow. The tears are there for everyone to see, grief for everyone to share.

The variety of college students is quite the sight to behold. There can easily be over fifty people lingering behind, not to mention the amount that have left after the ceremony ended. All of them wears black. "Alfred F. Jones" says the resplendent new plaque, and Alfred certainly seems to be an exceptionally popular boy amongst his peers, loved by everyone.

By chance, Arthur catches sight of a familiar bespectacled blond with a white bear, standing near the front. Arthur frowns, struggling with his memories. Now where has he seen... the fast food restaurant...

_ Matthew!_

It suddenly clicks, and he vaguely recalls the boy mentioning a brother who died. Matthew must have been referring to Alfred! What a coincidence.

"I'm perfect," the other ghost is laughing nervously. "I mean, I'm only _just_ chillaxin' at my own funeral, talkin' to the dead spirit of a dude that I killed. I'm totally perfect and peachy 'bout it. _No_ problem there at all. Nope."

"There's no reason to fear, you idiot. Nobody's blaming you." The Briton rolls his eyes. "Do you even _listen_ to the things going on around you?"

And maybe Alfred hasn't, because that's the only possible reason he is acting fidgety and flighty like that. Nobody has ever complimented _Arthur_ the way they praise and weep for the boy. His eulogy is emotional and personally crafted, instead of the half-baked version Arthur's family has ripped off from somewhere on the internet. The falling sunshine scorches against exposed skin, but none of the mourners makes even the slightest motion to move for shelter, all entranced by the solemn mood surrounding the grave.

"But—"

"No. _Listen_ to me, you prat." Arthur grabs the other's shoulders and forces them to face each other. "Walk around here, and just _listen_. Hear what all of your associates, family and friends are saying about you. You'd be a _fool_ to still think they are blaming you."

Blue eyes stare widely at him, and the fright in them makes him reconsider— makes him wonder if there's perhaps some other reason behind all of it. But slowly, albeit hesitantly, the boy nods.

"Alright." He swallows. "Yeah, okay."

"Good. Now _get to it_."

When push comes to shove, Arthur generally prefers slamming the poor bloke's face in the mud instead, if that's what it takes to get his point across. The younger blond appears to notice the viciousness in the glare, because he quickly scampers off like a bat from hell. Before entering the crowd, the boy abruptly skids to a stop, looking uncertain. But a face-plant into the mud does not seem obligatory, because he eventually slips into the crowd, if not somewhat reluctantly.

"Idiot," the Briton scoffs.

With nothing to do while he waits, his eyes meander through the sea of faces, surprised by the amount of people he recognizes.

Kiku, the polite Japanese boy who he often passed by while going to work, is standing near the side with Yao, a common face at the tea house Arthur went to. Two Italian twins huddle in the middle. One wails loudly and clutches the other's arm in a death grip, while the other snarls and snaps in response. Traces of wetness can be found on both of their faces, which look oddly familiar, but Arthur can't recall where he has seen any of them.

As he wades through the crowd himself, the sandy blond hears quiet, heartfelt talks about the deceased boy. He keeps his ears open, wanting to learn more about Alfred— the person who he would likely have to tolerate for the rest of his ghostly existence. From snippets of phrases here and there, he constructs a mental image of the American when the boy was still alive.

Alfred F. Jones is eighteen years old. He is— well, was— going to a prestigious local university on scholarship, studying general science. Rumour has it that he plans to go into aerospace engineering, and he dreams of becoming an astronaut. (Arthur nearly laughs out loud at that.) The future is bright for the boy, as he excels both academically and socially. Even his physique is envied by peers.

Several people mention how generous and kind Alfred is, constantly coming to their aid in their dark hours. Optimistic and motivated, he is always laughing and making everyone laugh. From the way they are mourning for the boy, it's as if their sun has died out along with him.

Alfred, their golden boy. Their hero.

Perfect.

Flawless.

_Too_ flawless.

Such a flawless person doesn't _exist_, and yet Alfred does. _It's as if_—

A familiar clump of wavy hair catches Arthur's attention, successfully breaking his train of thoughts. He stops, spinning around. A glimpse of the man's face, hidden behind the back of a woman, gives him an unpleasant surprise.

_ Francis_. What is that bloody frog doing here?

Twisting in between the array of people— because he still doesn't like materials passing _through_ him— Arthur moves closer.

The woman's long brown hair drapes over her face, blocking her facial features. She and the Frenchman are situated far off from the other mourners, their body language suggesting that they're engaged in a private conversation. The woman is tense, and in any other circumstances, he would think that Francis is sexually harassing the poor young brunette. But the other man's voice is hushed and serious, lecherous hands kept to himself for once.

"—just like that incident, don't you agree?"

Fully within hearing range now, Arthur listens in. It's not _exactly_ eavesdropping if you're not making an avid attempt to hide yourself, right?

Details become clearer now that he is closer. The brunette is wearing a black hair tie and an equally black dress. Her green eyes show tiny signs of puffiness, and her lips are curled downwards into a frown. But what confounds him is _Francis's_ expression.

The mood of the conversation is strange.

"What do you mean?"

_Very strange_.

"Elizaveta, ma chère, pretence does not suit you."

"Who's pretending?" the girl says defensively, folding her arms. "I just don't know what you're trying to say."

"You _do_ know. _All of us involved knows_. We're all thinking about it, but none of us wants to say it." Francis pauses, a faraway expression on his face as he watches the sun drift closer to the horizon. Then he blinks, smiling bitterly. "That incident two years ago was all over the local news."

Incident two years ago? Arthur blinks. What is the frog going on about?

Elizaveta also blinks innocently, but the tenseness of her shoulders gives her away. "I don't know what you're talking about." She laughs edgily. "Sheesh, Francis! Go away, you pervert. We're here in front of Alfred's grave. Bug me some other time."

She tries to push past him, but the man is unrelenting.

"Maybe I'll say it in a way that you can't avoid then," Francis says solemnly. "I'm talking about the reason why they implemented those useless suicide nets on the bridge."

_The suicide net that saved Peter, but failed to catch Alfred and him_— Arthur thinks, trying to warp his mind around the conversation. _What..._

"Stop. Don't say anymore."

"Two figures on a rainy night, standing near the edge of the bridge. Just like how it happened to Alfred, except this was two years ago. It's almost a pure mimicry of the event, actually."

"Stop. Stop. Stop..." Elizaveta's hands clamp over her ears.

_What... is this?_

"—Except only one fell that time, two years ago." A dark expression morphs Francis's face. There's a hiss at the end of his words, and he starts spitting each syllable out faster and faster as anger takes hold. "In the end, they ruled it as suicide, but no. We both know him. We both know he wouldn't leave Ludwig without a family. We both know he wouldn't have voluntarily jumped off that bridge. _We both know Gilbert Beilschmidt was pushed_—"

"_Stop_!" The sudden snarl quiets the entire crowd, and bewildered heads turn in their direction. "What are you looking at?" The woman sends deadly glares at the curious faces, and they hastily return to their own business.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Elizaveta rubs her forehead, regarding the man as if trying to figure out what to do with him. She grabs him by his tie, pulling down so that they are face to face with each other. "_Don't_," she hisses, "mention that name, _ever_, if you know what's good for you. What's good for _us all_. What's over is over and _done with_. We need to move on."

"Not all of us are content to let the past rest," Francis says. But the venom is still evident in his voice, like cracks distorting his facade of calmness. "I won't sit still and let history repeat itself again. _Mon dieu!_ I refuse to let the _killer_ run freewhile my dearest friends were _murdered— while they were drowned beneath that wretched bridge!_"

The conviction behind those words startle Arthur, forcing the ghost to hover a few steps back. He has never seen his co-worker so wound up, breaths ragged and _seething_ out of sheer bitterness.

Slowly, the tie slips from Elizaveta's hand.

"I can't stop you."

"I'm afraid not, ma chère." Francis smiles sadly, the strength draining from his body. With the weary look on his face, he seems years older than before. "Sorry."

"Just..." she struggles to find the right words. "Be careful, alright? Don't do anything stupid."

"Thank you. Coming from a beautiful lady like you, the concern flatters me."

The Frenchman offers her a genuine smile. She snorts in response.

"Don't think that I'm saying this for you," Elizaveta snaps, but her eyes soften. "It's just... there's been enough funerals lately. No need to add to the body count."

"I will keep that in mind, Elizaveta. Nonetheless, thank you for listening to me."

After the woman departs, Francis gazes off into the horizon again, a withdrawn look where his usual promiscuous smirk is supposed to be. Fingers are absentmindedly fiddling with a ring on his hand, delicately caressing the edges as if it's something very valuable. While Arthur would not concede they are close, only being regular drinking buddies, even he can tell that the frog is not being his usual self today.

Thoroughly confused and feeling as if he has witnessed something private, Arthur decides to make himself scarce. But one final, barely audible utterance slithers into his ears before he gets too far away.

"The killer shall not go unpunished. May you finally rest in peace after this, my love."

It isn't until later that he realizes that the direction Francis is gazing at is the direction of his grave. But when he does, a gut intuition tells him that maybe things aren't so straightforward as he initially thought. That maybe it's not simple coincidence at work, but some supernatural, unidentifiable force driving the cogs behind the scenes. That maybe they're all toys, at the whims of some sinister plot out there.

That maybe there's more to this absurd story of deaths and ghosts than it initially seems.

* * *

It's a while later that Alfred returns, his gait significantly lighter than before. It's like a weight has been lifted from him, rendering his demeanour cheerful and relaxed. While there's still strains of uneasiness, his smile is far brighter in comparison to before.

"Hey."

"I'm right, aren't I?" says Arthur.

The sunny blond grins. "Yeah," he admits. "Nobody hates me. They all said nice stuff about me, said they all miss me. They're all real kind about it."

Kind.

Arthur nods his head slowly, wondering just why that word sounds so wrong when—

_To be cruel, you have to be kind_.

The tiny trigger of memory causes him to freeze, and he sharply pivots around to face the other. Blue eyes behind rectangle frames blink innocently.

"They're real kind, you say?"

"Yeah." The confused look Alfred shoots him makes him doubt himself. Perhaps he is over-thinking it. What with that bizarre conversation between Francis and the young lady, his paranoia is probably just triggering overboard. "Said I was a good person, that I've really made a big difference in their lives. Said I really was a great help to them, and that I'll always be remembered."

It's probably nothing, the Briton decides. _Of course._ Why does some nonsense uttered by his mother over a decade ago still haunt him today?

"An accident. That's what they call it." Alfred turns away from the other ghost, hands in his pocket. "Funny thing, huh? I was tryin' to save you from going splat on the ocean surface, maybe talk you out of suicide or something. But look at how that turned out." There's a faint chuckle. "I ended up dunkin' us both straight into the afterlife. Hollywood style. 'S a shame it could 'a used some better sound effects though."

Arthur thinks he only imagined the tremor in those words, so he doesn't interrupt.

"But you never needed saving did ya, 'brows? You don't seem like the sort that lets life get 'em down."

"No. I'm too busy complaining about life and insulting every single living being to contemplate the merits of ending my life." He rolls his eyes, snorting softly. "Excuse me if I'm not a damsel in distress that requires saving."

"Naw, I figure you're more of a grouchy old fire-breathing dragon with bad breaths instead. Sure fits your temper, right?"

"Roar," Arthur deadpans.

Blinking in surprise, Alfred bursts out into uncontrollable laughter. His body is shaking, arms clutching at his tummy as if it's the funniest thing he heard in a long time. Tears trail from one corner of his eye, although whether it's remnant from before or from laughing too hard, Arthur doesn't know. It leaves the Briton faintly annoyed, wondering if what he said isn't clearly _sarcastic_ enough.

But seeing the genuine grin, it's hard to stay mad at the boy.

By now, the mourners are beginning to disperse, each face wearing a various degree of tiredness. Meanwhile, Arthur keeps a distracted watch on Francis, who is currently wading his way to a small figure who sits alone on the grass in front of the new grave. The man crouches down, speaking quietly to Matthew. The boy seems to acknowledge the man, the clutch on his bear loosening as he stands up. Arthur really wants to hear what they're saying, but—

"You're hilarious, did I ever tell you that?" Alfred wipes a tear from the corner of his eyes, finally managing to compose himself. "Speakin' of which, where are you stayin' at?"

Attention momentarily diverted back, the Briton offers the _perfectly_ intelligent response of, "Huh?"

"I mean." Alfred gestures with his hand. "Where did 'ja stay, these past few days?"

"I switched around different motels, residing in empty rooms." After all, there's no way Arthur plans to stay in his household, after what happened. Then, he adds darkly, "Until two wankers came barging in, eating each other's face out, undergarments flying everywhere before I can even get out! I swear, people lack decency these days."

"Sounds tough, man." Raising an eyebrow, the other ghost offers him a playful look. "Sure ya didn't barge into a brothel instead?"

"Yes. Well, no..."

He considers this. There _did_ seem to be usually high numbers of wall bangings and bed squeakings last night, even for a typical— if not somewhat shady— motel. The women there also wore bizarre clothes, which he politely averted his eyes for. And those gaudy, tasteless displays and rosy lights...

Blimey. It _was_ a brothel, _wasn't it_?

"Gawd, you've actually _mistaken_ a brothel for a motel?" Alfred guffaws, looking at him like he's a _real_ special snowflake out of the billion other special snowflakes. "You're a smashin' piece of art, aren't ya, '_Art_ie'?"

Rendered mute in horror by his blatant mistake, it takes a while for the Briton's brain to recover from its meltdown.

"...That has to be the worst pun I've heard."

"You must not hear many then, 'cause I got _tons_ more up my sleeves." Leading the way, the sunny blond follows the flow of people as they begin to leave the graveyard. The two ghosts blend in perfectly, and if not for the occasional hands or shoulders that poke through their immaterial bodies, it would almost feel like they're still alive. "So anyways, I got this place near here. Used to be my uncle's house, but he's in Canadia or something right now, and—"

"_Canada_, you mean."

"Right. _Ca-na-dia_. So as I was saying, we can stay there. Maybe figure out what's going on with all this ghost thing, y' know? I mean, there's gotta be a reason why we turned into creepy weird non-existent beings. Haven't seen any other of us invisible guys cruisin' around, so there's gotta be something that's up."

"Sure." Arthur's ready to agree with anything at this rate, as long as it gets them out of there. The uneasy feeling from before re-surges, even as he tries to suppress it. "Certainly better than staying at a _brothel_."

Just as Alfred is about say something else, a large group of people interrupts and passes straight through them, earning surprised yelps from both ghosts.

The two Italian twins are bickering, followed by a distracted Antonio. The latter is, incidentally enough, another one of Arthur's acquaintance. _Just how many mutual friends do he and Alfred share?_ Once in a while, the Spaniard would join Francis and Arthur at the pub. He is a good-natured man, constantly endorsing a smile on his face. But today, just like many other smiles, it's been turned upside down.

"Hey, Feli."

"Yup?" One of the twins tilts his head in a ditzy fashion.

"You're on the case with Ludwig, right?" Without waiting for a reply, Antonio continues with a hint of melancholy in his words. "Do you know what really happened to Alfred and Arthur? I just can't believe they both fell off the bridge accidentally."

Another boy, who Arthur doesn't recognize, chimes in. "Yeah, c' mon. Tell us what happened."

Gossip attracts people like bead-eyed insects to the flame. Words spread around, and soon, the group festers into practically triple its original size. Alfred fidgets beside him, nervously not looking at his supposed "friends" for some reason. They don't seem like very good friends to Arthur, at least.

Blinking in confusion, the Italian asks, "Arthur is the man that fell off the bridge with Alfred, right?"

"Yes. He's... a good friend of mine, actually."

"Oh. Um, sorry! I didn't know. That's horrible." The one named Feli hesitates. "Ve, I'm not supposed to say anything, or else Luddy's gonna get mad at me."

His voice becomes hushed.

"But someone saw it happen. We have, um, what's that word? A _witness_."

Whispers of "woah"s and "what"s follow, as Feli's attempt at secrecy crashes and burns. It's like a school game of telephone, the closest person passing the information onto the rest of the mass. The vagueness only seems to spark more interest, more gaps to be filled with outrageous _not-lies_.

"The witness said the smaller man was pushed," he explains. "And, ve, the Arthur man was a lot shorter than Alfred."

"Alfred pushed the other dude?" Someone in the crowd gasps.

Visibly, Alfred stiffens.

"No way Al would do something like that, right?"

"Of course not!" The other, grumpier, Italian twin snipes at the rest. "Remember who we are talking about here!"

Uneasy glances are exchanged, as murmurs fill the crowd.

"But there's a _witness_..."

"He wouldn't... would he?"

"—Maybe but..."

"—I...don't know..."

With each uncertain phrase, the sunny-haired ghost crumbles a little. The previous cheer are completely gone now, and the frightened look returns with a renewed vengeance. Blue eyes are concentrating on nothing in particular, and clammy hands are squeezed tightly into a fist. It's as if he's chanting, _"I knew it. I knew it. I knew it..._" in his mind.

"Hey," Arthur begins, a hand awkwardly stopping in the air midway. How are you supposed to comfort someone in a situation like this? "Al—"

"Alfred wouldn't do that!" One of the guys bursts out laughing. "Dude, he's a nice guy. He ain't capable of something like that."

The relief is great, as the crowd eagerly eats up this reasoning. They glance at each other, chuckling.

"Yeah, right?"

"I know! What were we thinking—"

"Actually, Alfred is very capable of something like that."

A lone voice pierces through the crowd. It's soft and nervous, barely audible. But the resulting silence creates a huge impression, as everyone simultaneously turns towards the source of the dissent.

A boy steps out, and— _it's Matthew!_ Arthur's eyes widen. The frail blond is clutching onto the strange bear like it's a life line. The intensity of the squeezing makes it seem like he wants the Earth to swallow him up than be at the centre of attention. He opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but no sound comes out.

A reassuring hand clasps his shoulder, and Matthew gives Francis, who has came up behind him, a grateful smile. "Thanks," he mouths back.

"What do you mean?" Antonio is the first to break the silence.

"I-I..." It takes two tries, but the boy's voice stabilizes as he addresses the people around him. It grows clearer and more confident as he continues on. "You all k-know me as Alfred's b-brother. There's... something that you should all know. I didn't tell anyone because I was afraid, but it'd be unfair to the other person. To the other person who died along with my brother."

"Me?" Arthur gapes.

"There's something you should all know about my brother," Matthew says. "He was very much capable of pushing someone off the bridge out of malice."

The erupted shock that sears through the crowd renders everyone temporarily speechless, until the whispery gossips set in again like the noises of buzzing flies.

"What? But..."

"—Is his brother. He might know something—"

"_Alfred_ did that? I thought..."

"—Not surprisingly, actually. Since—"

"Now that you think 'bout it..."

"Matthew wouldn't lie about this—"

"What are you all shitheads talking about?" Surprisingly, it is the angry Italian that comes to the rescue. "This is _Alfred_. That idiot meathead doesn't know how to kill someone!"

"Lovi is right," Antonio interjects, looking perplexed. "Alfred is nice and kind to everyone. Why would you say so, Matthew?"

Shakily, the bespectacled blond inhales a breath, as if to prepare himself for what he is about to reveal. "Yes, my brother's kind. But sometimes the kindest people are the cruelest. I know, because I am a victim myself."

_To be cruel, you have to be kind_.

This time, Matthew stares straight into the eyes of people. For the tinniest interval, those blue eyes gloss over Arthur's, and he is struck by the seriousness and _vehemence_ of the boy's resolve. They are hardened steel, ready to see through his action to the end.

And he says: "Because when we were sixteen, Alfred purposefully pushed me down two flights of stairs. I received several broken bones, bruises, a concussion, and had to be admitted to the hospital for months."

Silence.

If people are surprised last time, this new piece of information receives even _greater_ exclamations of astonishment. Everyone starts speaking, an agitated assembly of opinions and judgements broadcasted all at once. The views are beginning to turn against the deceased blond, increasing in negativity. Somewhere near Matthew, Francis is smiling in contentment, as if he has accomplished something to be _proud of_.

But Arthur's caring about none of that. He's trying desperately to find the ghost who has just been separated from him in the chaos.

It doesn't take long. Alfred is only a few steps away from him, frozen in place motionlessly like a statue.

Even as hurtful words drown out Lovi's indignant complaints and Antonio's appeal for peace, the boy doesn't move or utter a sound. His expression is blank, but in a different way than normal, like he's desperately _trying_ to keep his face that way. Like he's desperately trying to _hide_.

The boy is a brilliant actor, but even he is not able to disguise it entirely this time.

If you ask Arthur, he would say that...

This time, Alfred looks _betrayed_.

* * *

**A/N:** Someone here is a liar. The question is _who_. -plants hint- The guesses are free, if you wanna take a shot at what's going on. Lots of emotional stuff this chapter. All these new characters (Elizaveta, Antonio, etc) you will encounter again in later chapters. Bwahaha, the plot is finally coming in. (After, like, what. 15k words?)

So, anyone confused yet? Drop me a PM or a review, and I can explain. Tell me if things are going too fast, 'cause I'm still new at keeping pace by chapter. Again, thanks to everyone who reviewed last time. It's nice to hear what others think, 'cause I myself don't know what to think.

**-Edge**


	5. Whispers of the Dead

**EDITED: Corrected a few typos, grammar mistakes, etc. Thanks so much for spotting that.**

**Warning for this chapter — none ... I think? Language. Slight violence. If you've already read the previous few chapters, you'll know what to expect. I don't personally enjoy writing these warnings, so feel free to skip them if you don't like spoilers either.**

* * *

There is this concept called make-believe, that nobody who really needs it believes in.

It usually begins with "once upon a time," and it ends with "and they live happily ever after." He himself is not personally fond of fairy tales, preferring the Hollywood action film way of starting everything off with a bang. But if there's anything he has learnt from the years of mandatory English classes, it is that a story needs a beginning, a middle, a climax and an end.

So, once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there lived two brothers inside the white picket fence of a stereotypical rich household, in the United States of America. They both had sunny blond hair, with bright sky-blue eyes. "Alfred & Matthew" were written in squiggly letters on a sheet tacked onto their bedroom door, along with crude drawings of space ships and animals.

One wanted to be an astronaut, and the other wanted to be a veterinarian. One liked books, while the other fell in love with the outdoors. One excelled in art, while the other preferred science. One grew to be outgoing, and the other not so much. One was modest, while the other was confident. One smiled less, while the other beamed at strangers everyday.

But the fact is that both of them loved helping people. The simple smiles of gratitude from everyone's faces held weight in gold. The boys were famous around their block for helping their neighbours and elders out. They were nice. They were kind. They were good kids, with a bright future ahead of them.

Everything was alright.

Until the day when one of them realized that everything was not so right.

He doesn't know when it began. Perhaps it started young, when their mom— still Mrs. Jones back then, before the divorce— gave the cookie with the most chocolate chips to the boy who was always smiling. Perhaps it was when the outgoing boy got invited to more birthday parties during their elementary school years. Perhaps it was when one was accepted amongst their peers in high school, while the other was ridiculed for being a _nerd_. Like he has an infectious _disease_. Perhaps it was when one saw the other making out with a girl who they both had a crush on, right in front of their shared locker.

Or perhaps it was not one instance, but all the accumulated times when one had accidentally stolen the spotlight from the other.

The cheerful boy was caring. The cheerful boy was nice. The cheerful boy was loved. The cheerful boy was oblivious. And most unforgivable of all, the cheerful boy was unintentionally cruel in his kindness.

Jealousy festered like a disease, corrupting the quieter boy's insides until he became not so nice— not so kind.

It happened one typical morning, when they were getting ready for school. The happier boy yawned and rubbed his eyes, completely unaware of the treacherous shadow following his steps. Jealous eyes followed like a hawk as the boy approached the staircase.

"Mattie, c' mon! Let's hurry. We're gonna be late."

"Yeah, yeah. Gimme a sec..."

A second passed.

Then, the world spun.

Even now, after two years, he can still feel the shock that encased his body, and his mind can still reconstruct the look in his brother's eyes as they bore into him. Falling and falling. One step, two steps, five, and then ten... _Blop, blop, blop_ goes the body as it tumbles painfully like a wreaked doll. _It hurts. Hell, it does._ But he's not paying attention to any of that.

He still remembers the sting back then, as the cruel face of his brother disappears from view.

The stinging sense of betrayal.

Just like now.

He still recalls the faint shell-shocked state he was in, as the worried footsteps of Mr. Jones echoed through the hall. Their father's presence hesitated beside him for a second, as if regarding the scene in disbelief or horror. He wanted to tell his dad not too worry. He wanted to laugh and reassure them that everything was _fine_. That it was a careless _mistake_ or something. But his voice gurgled out of his mouth weirdly, and every part of his body felt numb.

The rest of the memory dissolves into a blur, but the blond still remembers the conclusion.

One boy was immediately sent to the hospital, while the other boy has been lying straight through his teeth ever since.

This is a make-believe, so it began with "once upon a time". That's accurate enough. But sometimes Alfred F. Jones wonders just who he's trying to fool with the forced "and they lived happily ever after" tacked on at the end of him and his brother's story.

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

... whispers of the dead.

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"That's not true."

The words spill out of someone's mouth, and it takes a good few seconds until Alfred recognizes the barely-coherent voice to be his own. His ears are pounding in his head, making it hard to think.

"Mattie." His throat is dry, causing his words to gurgle. It reminds him of the same way his voice gurgled two years ago, beside the staircase. Shaking his head, he tries to block the memory out. "It's the exact opposite. You were the one who..."

With a single confession, Matthew has turned the opinion of everyone against him.

"What are you... saying?"

For once, nobody pays attention to him. His brother's indistinct presence outshines his invisible one. One time, Alfred joked about Matthew being as noticeable as a ghost wearing an invisible suit. Well, now the joke's on him.

Though he's not surprised. Really, he's not. Because 'Brows is wrong, even if the man seems to make a lot of sense with his funny British accent and scrunchy eyebrows. Because most of these folks are not _really_ his friends anyways, even if they spout a lot of heartfelt bullshit. They're only there to join in on the new fad, maybe stick a "I-went-to-the-funeral-of-the-coolest-dead-kid-in-college" pin to their bag.

The ghost pretends to not hear the whispers.

"—Hey guys, now that I think about it, Al _can be_ a total douche sometimes—"

"—Remember that time at our big game?—"

"—When he got on our case 'bout some stupid shit, an' how we're friggin' _bothering_ the neighbour with our smoking—"

"—He does seem sorta fake—"

"—Ignored me in the hall the other day—"

"—I've heard that he has some mental problems—"

It doesn't hurt.

"—Nice kids like that don't _exist_—"

"—Wouldn't it make a lotta sense if Matthew's right?—"

They're not his friends, but he cares. So it hurts.

"—I feel so sorry for Matthew. Sounds like he's got it tough—"

But even when he _does_ care, it's not like he can _do_ anything anyways. Being a ghost is a lonely business, with a crappy career prospect and an even crappier pay. He didn't sign up for this, but it's not like he has anyone to give his resignation letter to.

"Stop this bullcrap!" An angry snarl comes from Lovino, and the Italian starts smacking everyone on the head to get their attention. He does so in a circle, earning yelps of indignant from all the victims of his wraith. "Are you shitheads Alfred's friends _or not_? How the hell can you bitch about him while his fucking coffin is standin' only a _few yards_ away?"

Kid's got spunk, Alfred will give him that at least. It's what he both likes and loathes in his one genuine friend-acquaintance. ...And the mouth of a sailor, for that matter. Even though the skinny and frail-looking brunette is technically older than him, the man will always be a "kid" in his eyes.

Then there's his brother Feli.

Alfred met the twins at an Italian restaurant owned by their grandpa. The younger twin, Feli, had accidentally spilled a cup of hot, boiling water onto his lap— who gave the kid that anyways? And Lovino came to the rescue by promptly smacking his face with a dry towel and haughtily telling him: "Clean up. You look like you just wet yourself. And no, you can't sue us. There's a sign near the front that says: 'We do not offer compensations for any mutilations, accidentally or intentionally.' Please enjoy your fucking pasta."

It was then the American understood why the restaurant had been so empty during dinner hours.

Speaking of which, didn't Alfred see Feli that day after he and Arthur got out of the water? Nobody believed that the ditzy Italian became a cop, until Feli flashed them all with his shiny badge and vowed to catch all the "bad guys". Though at that time, people were more worried about him accidentally tasering himself. Now, in all the commotion, Feliciano doesn't look like a part of the Fuzz at all, cowering behind his older brother.

"Well? Say something," Lovino demands.

Heads turn in his direction, expressions blank.

"Well, yeah. But this is, like, murder we're talking about. If Al _really_ pushed some dude off the bridge..."

Uneasy glances are exchanged.

"I ain't okay with murder, are you?"

"No way. 'Course not."

The noise of gossiping swarms again, like a cloud of parasitic wasps in the air. Alfred shuts his eyes, letting the words wash over him. A hand softly drops onto his shoulder, squeezing lightly in a way that's probably meant to be comforting. He shrugs it off, ignoring the concern in those green eyes.

The sunny blond wants to turn around and twist his mouth into a bright grin like always. He wants to tell Arthur that everything is _fine_. That it's a beautiful day today. That they should make the best of it. That they should go grab a cup of joe or something, even though ghosts can't drink coffee. That it'll at least be better than just standing here. That _he's perfectly fine_, so what's that look for?

"Well, looks like this will go splendidly in the scandal papers," Arthur says.

It takes a while for the American to realize that it's a joke, phrased in an awkward manner. Probably intended to comfort him. "Yeah?"

"They're always doing this, making a ridiculous scandal out of the tinniest things. Don't let it get to you, lad."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"Something like that." Then, almost like an afterthought, the Briton adds: "I'm a newspaper columnist."

"Oh." The sunny blond really has nothing to say to that, but he wants to keep the conversation going. It distracts him. "'Fraid I have bad experiences with columnists."

As if amused by something he said, Arthur laughs. "Quite a lot of blokes do. In my line of work, I am practically entitled to bugger the daylight out of certain people. In fact, it's rather insulting when nobody writes a letter of complaint after my hard work."

"Huh."

In all of his life, never has Alfred struggled so hard to keep a conversation going. The silence lingers, so again, the other ghost is looking at him with those sympathetic eyes.

"Alfred..."

"Don't," he says, a little proud that his voice comes out smooth and nonchalant.

Arthur stares at him sceptically from the corner of his eyes, but thankfully says nothing after that. For now, he just wants to watch. Maybe figure out why Mattie is doing all this. Just how many of his friends are fake. All the other stuff, just to get them all over with.

Returning his attention to the crowd, he finds everyone still discussing, some looking puzzled and others full of contempt.

"Um, I don't think Alfred would do something like that," Kiku says, but his protest is drowned out by a louder one.

"Alfred might be an idiot, but he isn't a killer!" Lovino's fists are shaking lividly. He suddenly swerves around, glaring at the other Italian, who recoils from the fury. "Right, Feli? _Antonio?_"

"Huh?" Startled, the younger twin backs away. But he gathers up his courage to stand in front of everyone, nodding enthusiastically. "I mean, that's right. Remember all the times Alfred helped us? He's a good guy. He wouldn't do something like that. It's not nice accusing him. Aren't we all friends?"

Alfred's surprised.

Usually, the Italians are cowardly, hardly the ones he expect to defend him out of his set of friends and not-really-friends. The others are there too, but he figures they're busy, conquering their own demons rather than defending a dead friend's virtue.

_Feli, Lovi. Thanks._

"Yeah," Antonio agrees, but he looks distracted. "Alfred wouldn't—"

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," another person interjects.

There's a tinge of accent to it that identifies the speaker before he parts from the crowd. Francis glides towards the two Italian twins confidently, one hand clenched as if gripping something. The glamourous black attire brings out the easy smile on his face. When seen from a certain angle, the shadow of his arms creates the effect of wings behind him.

Or the spreading claws of a spider weaving his traps.

"Francis, what are you planning?" Antonio bites his lips nervously, an eyebrow raised. He shoots the other a meaningful look, like there's something he wants to say but can't.

"Don't worry." The Frenchman smirks. "I know what I'm doing."

The brunet doesn't seem reassured.

"And what's that?"

"Why, I'm merely defending my boyfriend against his abusive brother."

_...Boyfriend?_

"Your boyfriend?" Antonio asks, sounding equally confused.

Then, Francis shocks everyone by pulling Matthew closer, gently lacing their fingers together. He kisses the back of the younger blond's hand, earning a furious blush.

"_Matthew?_" Antonio blinks, taken aback. "But I thought you liked _Ar_—"

Jaw dropping further, the brunet watches as his friend swiftly distracts Matthew with an open-mouth kiss. Alfred also watches, eyes wide as his brother is quite literally being _tongue-raped_ by the man he never really liked. It lasts for the short span of five seconds, but the effect is evident in the flustered and breathless state of his brother.

"Matthew is my boyfriend," Francis enunciates each words slowly, eyes narrowing.

"Okay, okay." Antonio nods, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"I'm sure you didn't."

"But anyways, you shouldn't talk about the deceased like that." His voice lowers a few pitch, and anxious eyes glance around furtively. "It's disrespectful. And what if something happens?"

Opening his mouth, Francis is about to answer, but someone beats him to it.

"I'm s-sorry."

Everyone's attention directs to the quiet, bespectacled blond beside Francis.

"I'm sorry," Matthew repeats, clutching onto Kumajirou like a lifeline. The way those trembling fingers dig into the stuffed bear makes him look genuinely apologetic, like he hates himself for what he has done. "I know it's bad to talk about... about it, especially when we just came from brother's f-funeral. But..."

He looks at Francis and receives an encouraging smile.

"But I need to take this step." He stands up straighter, and the grip on the white bear lessens. Determination shines in the blue eyes that usually hide behind the glasses frame. "I have to leave my brother's shadow. Make my own decisions. Stand up for myself. Be my own person. My brother has been unfair to a lot of people, hiding things that people have the right to know. Even though I don't want to believe it, Alfred probably did intentionally push that man off the bridge. The timing was bad, but I had to say it. Otherwise it wouldn't be fair to the poor man's family. The truth deserves to be revealed."

_What truth?_ Alfred wants to shout, but he's startled by an abrupt sound. Is it... _clapping?_ Another pair of hands joins in. Then several more, until the noise assaults his ear drums from all directions. He's standing amidst the crowd, surrounded by his supposed friends' applause of approval for his brother's little speech. And all he can think of is:

_ It's always like this_.

"Well said." Francis pats Matthew's shoulder. "Do you see the pain and turmoil this boy went through? He forced himself to confess all this, and we would do well not to waste his effort. All of you should hear the truth."

Suddenly, Feli blurts out: "But... but that's not right. Why would Alfred kill someone he doesn't know and jump off the bridge himself? There's no motive." Then, sheepishly, he adds, "I learnt that as a police."

"Other than that the bridge is cursed," Antonio mutters under his breath.

"But there _is_. A motive, that is." Francis then addresses the remaining crowd. "Don't be so certain the two haven't met before. First, think about this. I'm sure many of you know who Arthur Kirkland is. Am I right?

There's a disparaging murmurs of "yeah"s.

"Now, consider. That's an unusually high number of people, especially for two men who supposedly haven't met before. Coincidence? Think again. In fact, our dear Alfred and Arthur have the same social circle. Actually, they are _bound_ to have met before, perhaps introduced by a mutual friend."

The new information invokes another series of discussion between the acquaintances of Alfred.

"What's the frog going on about?" Arthur says, blinking in puzzlement. "I've never met you before."

"Me neither." Pause. "You know Francis?"

"He's my bloody co-worker. He runs a stupid love advice column. I know Antonio too. Yao... Kiku... Vash... Berwald... Tino... That looks like 'Chelle over there... and Toris..."

"Damn." Alfred whistles. "That _is_ a lotta people for a coincidence."

Eyebrows furrowed, the Brit's eyes meet his, matching the confusion he feels. "Quite."

"Fine. So maybe they might've met before," Lovino snap. "But what about the motive?"

"Ah, but as I'm sure you have gathered from the conversations going around, Alfred isn't exactly the... healthiest, mentally." Francis smiles thinly. "Or at least not as much as he would like us to believe. Also, there's another connection between the two of them."

"There is?"

"The two of them," Francis begins dramatically, pausing for suspense. His eyes meet everyone's eyes once. "...Have come into contact a long time ago. Perhaps not by face, but nevertheless. Let me explain. Haven't any of you wondered why Alfred went to college instead of a university? With his grades and community records, it should have been an easy entrance. But in fact, during high school years, our dearest hero did something that ruined it for him."

_No._ Alfred is frozen. _How did Francis find this?_

"He blackmailed someone, a man named _Gilbert Beilschmidt_. But luckily, a columnist found out, and published an article on it and revealed the rotten side of the golden boy. Ladies and gentlemen. Would anyone like to take a guess at the name written right below the headline?"

Slowly, the American turns.

It's a coincidence. It has to be.

Arthur. _What did he say he makes for a living again?_

Green eyes are equally wide as they meet his, and Arthur looks as if he has just seen a ghost. But the word he utters cement down all doubt Alfred might have.

"Me."

"So you see," Francis concludes. "Alfred does have a motive to murder Arthur."

The man concludes everything flawlessly, and when he finishes, nobody says a word. His eyes are laced in malicious satisfaction, like he has already won the war. But he probably has, because even Lovino and Feliciano are hesitating, doubts blooming in their heads. Kiku seems perturbed, Antonio isn't listening, and Matthew is looking down at his shoes. All this seems to have simply cemented the argument down for everyone else, because they're loudly talking about it now.

Alfred. The fake. The killer. The _murderer_.

As his life— his world— crashes down around him, Alfred can really only think about one thing.

Arthur is just standing there, speechless and unmoving.

Arthur is going to believe Francis, because everyone else seems to.

Arthur is going to hate him, and that suddenly seems to weight a whole lot more than anything else. Even if they just met, he genuinely likes the funny Brit with the sarcastic streak and the caterpillar eyebrows. Alfred envies the way the other can speak his own mind— be his own person, without worrying about making others unhappy. The way he snaps at others, but isn't afraid to show that he cares either. Not to mention, he's the only one who can hear the American right now. Only one who can see him, hear him, touch him.

Eternity will be lonely, if his only companion hates his guts.

An alarmed cry breaks his train of thought, and Alfred has the time to blink twice until his entire vision seems to explode. It's a deafening, cracking sound, and a swirl of grey enshrouds his surroundings. The living people around him cough haphazardly, eyes squeezed shut. _It's rocks_, he notices belatedly. _The rocks are dancing_.

There are bigger chunks, tumbling across the ground and knocking people off their feet. Then there's the tiny rocks, crumbling even smaller until they morph into a sandstorm. A plethora of swear words drone out the initial yelps of surprise and fear.

"I told you it's a bad idea!" Antonio shouts. "We should have left this place. Now whatever's here is angry."

"What _is_ here?!"

"Fuck that shit. What just _happened_?"

Out of all the commotions, Feliciano nervously pulls out his badge. "U-um. I should be doing something. Okay people! I'm a police, so you should l-listen. You need get out of here, just in case something happens again. I'll call Ludwig. He should know what to do. But for now, you should all... stick together, I think, and wait while my friends come here."

One by one, people reluctantly obey. Some pushes, while others are still tilting their head in bewilderment.

While the flighty Italian is taking care of the crowd, Alfred is busy gaping at the ghost hovering in midst of the debris.

"How did you do that?" He demands, eyes bulging at the aftermath.

The grass is all blown away in a ring, singed with soot and ashes. Arthur stands in the only bare patch on the ground, looking intensely at his own hand. There's remnants of a destroyed headstone, half of it blown up, while the foundation is cracked into seven crumbled pieces.

"I had practice," Arthur says, eyes dimming in something that looks like _sadness_ for a second. But it passes, and he walks towards the other blond. "You didn't deserve any of that, so I had to find a way to interrupt them."

"Don't you hate me?"

An eyebrow is raised in response.

"And why would I do that? You're many things, lad. A bloody prat, an idiot, incredibly naive, an unbelievable annoyance sometimes..."

Arthur says the next line evenly, like how you would state a fact. Straightforward eyes bore into his, and a hand squeezes his shoulder.

"But a murderer isn't one of them."

Emotions well up, and suddenly, Alfred's worried that he is going to cry. But the moment passes, and for once, he lets out a genuine laugh. It's a foreign sound to his ears. After years of disuse, the laugh is a little rough. But Arthur looks pleased, so everything is fine. His body is light— lighter than he has felt in years. So this is what it's like.

Someone who _believes_ in him.

"Now that we've established that Francis is baseless with his conjectures, let's go _do something_ instead of standing here, waiting for the apocalypse." The Briton rolls his eyes. "Perhaps we can go for a cup of tea."

Laughing for real feels good, so Alfred laughs again.

"We're ghosts, man. That shit would just pass right through us. Plus, coffee is _way_ slicker. We should go hang out 'round a coffee shop instead."

"Bloody Americans," Arthur grumbles. "Your taste is just not _good_ enough for British tea."

They continue their bantering, walking side by side on the vibrant green grass. For a moment, Alfred has forgotten that he's dead in the first place. He feels like he's just strolling through a park with a friend. Never mind the morbid graveyard. Never mind the way their bodies would fade in and out at times. Never mind all the events that has happened today.

For the first time, Alfred feels that everything really _will_ be fine. And that despite all the turmoil he suffered through in each chapter of his life, this story or make-believe might have a happy ending after all.

* * *

**A/N:** Might be a few errors here and there, because it's written really late at night. So, how close were your guesses?

I tried to slow things down, since readers probably don't like reading chapters with too much stuff going on at the same time. But who knows how that worked? We're moving onto Alfred's POV now, and it'll probably be for the next three chapters or so. I'm changing the genre to mystery rather than supernatural, since that seems to be where the plot is going. 'Cause my writing never listens to me anyways. :x

Coincidence is an important word here. I'd use "serendipity", but that wouldn't make sense until later on. This story is just full of coincidences, isn't it? Alfred and Arthur. Coincidentally dying together at the same bridge. Coincidentally ending up at the same graveyard. Coincidentally having the same friends. Coincidentally have known each other a long time ago. There's a lot more coincidences. And the name Gilbert Beilschmidt sits in middle of it all.

Happy ending is happy. Or sorta happy. I dunno. As usual, penny for your thoughts? C:

**-Edge**


	6. For the Sake of Normality

**Warning for this chapter —some lil bit of gore, horror, disturbing stuff. Y' know, all those warm fuzzies. The rest is just the usual. This chapter is supposed to be _happy_. Can you imagine that?**

* * *

It probably borderlines The Worst Idea He's Ever Had, but Alfred stops.

The Briton beside him walks onwards obliviously, ranting about "the finer details between tea and coffee." And yeah, he does very much like to defend the virtue of coffee, or argue that all tea's good for is to dump into the Boston Harbour. Now _that's_ the way to party. But something causes him to stop.

Maybe it's the tiny movements of air that gives Alfred the goosebumps. Maybe it's the slight shift of grass behind him. Maybe it's the unnatural serenity of the entire graveyard after the commotion, looking for once like the beautiful garden where the dead take their final rest, instead of a tangled Reality TV of Too-Much-Drama and exaggerated betrayals. But regardless of the reason, he turns around, and—

—nearly receives a heart attack.

A person is standing there, so close that it forces him to jump back. A very _familiar_ person. Swallowing, the blond attempts to calm his nerves at the unexpected appearance.

Francis Bonnefoy.

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

...for the sake of normality.

**Chapter 6**

* * *

The man stands a few metres away, facing nose-to-nose with Alfred. His left hand clutches a thin chunk of limestone, one long strand from the remnants of exploded headstone scattered all around. Fingers are pale as they tighten, squeeze, _writhe_ against the even paler edges of the stone. They're sharp, digging into the skin. The first sight of scarlet blossoms, and Alfred, disbelieving, thinks it's all a joke.

He imagines somebody jumping out with cameras and shouting, "Surprise! You've been pranked!" He imagines Francis bursting out in laughter and explaining that it's all paint, that the blood isn't real, and that everything's all part of an elaborate setup. But that doesn't happen.

The crimson still flows, thicker than water as it freely drips onto the grass. There's the tinniest shake in the man's arm, giving away that it _does_ hurt. That the crazy bastard _does_ feel pain, just like every other typical human being.

What the hell is that guy _doing_? Has he completely _lost it_?

Heck, Alfred has never really liked Francis, at least not for the past year or two. Gilbert introduced them to each other at a party, one that he wished he had never gone to, because the day after was the worse hangover _ever_. That night, he was three sheets to the wind, barely able to distinguish a hat rack from a person. So naturally, he mistook Francis for a potted plant and puked right over the man's expensive, new jeans.

"Merde!" The Frenchman jumped up, looking comically scandalized, and a strings of gibberish filled the entire room.

And that is, in a nutshell, the American's first lesson on all the possible combination of swear words in the French language.

But despite their... _awkward_ initial meeting, they got along fine and dandy, or at least as fine as Francis's grudge about the jeans has allowed them to. They'd crash bars together, along with several other kids and semi-adults. Those are good memories, like the one involving the fake moustache and their feeble attempt to make Alfred look like the man on the fake ID. They had fun times, until Gilbert died. And he changed.

They all changed.

Antonio started to distance himself. Subtly, Francis's teasing gradually turned condescending. Elizaveta transformed from the delinquent she used to be and into a fine lady. And Alfred? He smiled a lot more— smiled until his mouth hurt.

But forget all the past. That doesn't matter anymore, doesn't exist anymore. What matters is the present, and the present manifests in the form of a grotesque rendition of what used to be his friend, clutching the remnants of some dead dude's headstone and bleeding _buckets_ in what would otherwise be a peaceful graveyard.

Alfred has never liked Francis, but damn, he never thought the other is _downright crazy!_ Why hasn't he left when everyone else evacuated? Alfred searches Francis's face, desperately trying to find some hint of the amiable but albeit perverted guy he used to hang out with.

Calculative eyes bore into his.

The eyes are staring _straight_ at him— no, not just the eyes. _Francis_ is staring straight at him. At Alfred. Who should be invisible. Who can't possibly be seen. And yet, here the Frenchman is doing something impossible. Seeing a ghost.

Slowly, Francis's lips curl.

"I know you're there."

A trembling, bloodied arm raises, holding the piece of limestone up at eye level. From this position, a line of text carving is revealed. The scratches on the fingers are bleeding into the grey material, congealing masses of red into the cracks. But nevertheless, the letters embedded into the stone are coherent.

Maybe a little _too_ coherent.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," Francis reads the words out loud. "You destroyed the tombstone of Gilbert. Is that supposed to be a personal message to me?"

He's misunderstanding, Alfred panics. All of this is a misunderstanding. Just a stroke of sheer coincidence, or somebody's messed up sense of humour.

"I didn't—," the blond begins to protest, stumbling back. _Has Francis been able to see him all this time? Was he been watched through the whole funeral?_ But those eyes don't follow him. Instead, they stare straight ahead, at the nothingness where Alfred originally stood.

He relaxes. Francis can't see him. It's just an accident.

Just a coincidence.

"I know you're there," the man repeats. He allows the piece of headstone to fall. It cracks into three pieces and crumbles into tinnier rocks. "I may not see you, wretched being. But know that you will not get away with what you've done. The blood of crime isn't something that you can just escape from. In life, or in _death_."

And _something_ happens. There's a flurry of movement where Francis swings his injured hand in a wide arc, and then there's a _sprinkle_. Alfred senses a drop of wetness land on his cheek, and a blotch splashes onto his glasses. Unthinkingly, he brings a shaky hand up and wipes the lens. Looking at his fingers, he sees a smudge of something red.

The man's head turns, smirking right at him— right at those smears on his face.

Blood.

_Francis's_ blood.

"See? I can see you just fine."

_Oh god_. Alfred's stomach churns, and he wants to run. Hastily, he tries to wipe it off, mind still blank and in disbelief from the turn of event.

It's _supposed_ to pass through him, like the rain, the puddles of water, or the coffee that he wishes he can drink. But instead, the treacherous liquid clings onto his skin, like incriminating evidence for a crime that he didn't commit.

"Now now," Francis sighs, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. "Don't leave just yet. Aren't we in middle of a conversation?"

"You're crazy."

If the man hears, he doesn't show it.

"Very well, if you are so desperate to leave..." Retrieving something from his pocket, he tosses it. "Here, catch."

The object gleams silver in the sun as it sails through the air and lands in Alfred's hand. Cursing his sport reflexes, the ghost inspects the object. At first glance, apart from the contamination from blood, it appears to be a rather typical ring, rimmed with silver and made of a white material. Then, the details set in. It's a little bigger than normal, a little clunkier. The width is uneven, and weird patterns adorn its sides.

These patterns...

"Don't lose that. It's pretty important."

Francis begins to walk away, slowly, like he has all the time in the world to waste. Like he's strolling through a _park_, and not a goddamn _graveyard_.

"Well, I've talked to thin air long enough. Anymore and I might have to consider admitting myself to the madhouse. Enjoy your afterlife— ...is what I might have said," head turns to the side, revealing half of an enigmatic smirk. "But I know better now. You're not a ghost, are you? No. You're something else."

_What? Then_—

Before Alfred can react or digest those words, another realization distracts him, and his attention instantly returns to the object— the ring with the patterns.

They're not patterns. _Goddammit._ Blue eyes shoot wide open. S_hit, they're joints._ This white material... It's not... Is it?

Alfred nearly drops the ring, and hell, he _wants to_. He wants to drop the ring and run. No. He wants to _throw_ the ring at Francis's head and demand an explanation to all the weird stuff happening. If he isn't a ghost, _what_ in the world _is he_? He struggles to ignore the sensation of the ring's jagged edges on his palm, because if it is what he thinks it is...

Bones.

The ring is made out of real, authentic _bones_.

"Alfred, you git!"

Startled, he swings around to see the distant figure of Arthur running back, faint lines of concern blemishing his face.

"What the bloody hell are you doing back? Why did you suddenly leave like that? And what was _that_ about?" Green eyes narrow as they dart between the faint outline of Francis faraway and the tension in his shoulder. "Did that frog _say_ anything to you? Did he actually _see_ you?"

At first, Alfred is frozen, brain going haywire with conflicting feelings and actions that his body wants to express all at once. _It's made out of bones. _He is still trying to process that fact. But seeing the look on the other's face, the blond suddenly knows what to do.

Hastily but carefully, he stuffs the... the _thing_ into his pocket. And wearing the practised smile of a compulsive liar, he says, "Nah. I just saw that he's still here. Came back t' see what he was doin'."

His foot kicks one piece of rubble over, revealing "ILBER".

"Turns out that the grave you 'sploded is Gilbert's."

"Bollocks. That's impossible. I only chose a random one out of the—," Arthur frowns, inspecting the letters closer. He crouches down, flipping over rubble and rearranging them like a jigsaw puzzle until the name becomes unmistakable. "Blimey."

"Kinda creepy, right?"

"An understatement," he mutters, standing back up. "Is that all that happened?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Now can we go now? I don' wanna stay here anymore. Race ya to the coffee shop, 'kay?"

The way that the Briton remains motionless a second too long before slowly nodding, suggests that he's probably not entirely convinced. Eventually, an eyebrow quirks. "Very well." He doesn't question about it further, and never has Alfred ever felt so grateful towards someone. Arthur turns towards the gates, but like a thought has just suddenly occurred to him, he halts midway.

"By the way," he comments casually. "You've got blood on your face."

_Shit._

"Oh," Alfred says awkwardly, hastily taking off his glasses and rubbing both his cheeks and the lenses thoroughly with his sleeves. After the harsh scrubbing, he replaces his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The world becomes clear again, and he sees Arthur staring at him, two hands crossed. "Are they gone now?"

"Yes." Snorting, the other ghost leads the way, and hesitantly, Alfred follows. "Your face is still red." He visibly flinches at that, but the green eyes only vaguely pause in his direction before returning back to the road. "Though I suppose that's because you've scrubbed it too hard. Idiotic American."

_"_Whatever._ Anyway, _let's hop to the coffee place. There's one real close to here. I'll show ya."

"Since when did we agree to go _there_ of all places? If you hadn't _ran away_ earlier, you would've known that when I was six, I wrote an_ essay_ on the ninety nine ways tea is better than coffee. Got an A+ for it too, and kept it on the fridge for _months_ until my bloody dog tried to eat it and—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. C' mon, c' mon, c' mon!"

Reluctantly and scowling like a grumpy old dragon deprived of his afternoon tea, Arthur follows. This time, he keeps a furtive glance at the American, making sure that nobody is going to randomly disappear again. But Alfred just grins, hoping he can fool the other.

Arthur can't know about this, because he likes Arthur. And he likes Arthur _a damn lot_. He wants to protect the only slice of normality in his life, and this is the only way, just like always. Lying is the only way.

For the sake of normality.

As they tread through the thinning grass once again, Alfred suddenly remembers a phrase that he wishes he doesn't, and it sends a shiver down his spine. His pace speeds up, desperate to leave the whole incident behind, as if escaping the place faster would cause all of what has happened to collapse into non-existence. The weight in his pocket pulsates as if it is _alive_ and capable of expressing pernicious amusement.

Bone orchard.

That's another name for a graveyard, something which he can only begin to appreciate from this day onwards. As if hearing his thoughts, the half of the ring digging at his side burns a wayward grin through the fabric of his jeans.

* * *

Sitting in an isolated corner of a quiet cafe, Alfred inhales the aromatic smell of coffee and misses the time when he can still drink the stuff. His knees clack restless against each other, and his hands clench and unclench, desperate for something to do.

It's funny how many little aspects of life you would miss once they're forever taken away from you. But for now, he can just sit here and play pretend with Arthur— retain a bit of sanity in the wreckage of the past few days.

Glancing at the man from the corner of his eyes, Alfred sees that Arthur is looking absentmindedly out the window, with visible furrows in those fuzzy eyebrows. If he doesn't know any better, he'd say the other looks like he's contemplating world suffering and the multitudes of ways to torture screaming children.

Except the sunny blond _does_ know better.

"Still sulking 'cause I won?" Alfred teases, just to break the silence. The silence isn't tense, no. Instead, it's calming, and that's what make it so damn _unnerving._

He's expectant, waiting for the questions to be asked. He thought it'd happen _for sure_. But ever since leaving the graveyard, Arthur hasn't made a single comment about _any of it_, even though the unspoken words are hanging over their heads like a guillotine. Or maybe only Alfred feels it. Or maybe the other is intentionally _trying_ to torture him.

Green eyes meet his, and Alfred hitches his breath and thinks, _now's the time_. _Artie's gonna ask it now, and I'm screwed._

"Belt up, git. Stop gloating over your victory. I demand a re-match. _Just because_ you chose scissors twice in a row..." Mumble. Mumble. Glare. The American nearly laughs in surprise, but another death glare forces him to swallow it. Oh yeah, Arthur's definitely sulking. "I don't understand _how_ you cannot appreciate tea. It taste so much better than this... this _foul_ substance you call coffee. Even though we are not drinking anything, the smell is _horrendous_."

"We goin' back to this argument again? 'Cause, baby, this can go on for _days_."

The Briton shrugs, distracted by something on the table. "From the look of things, we'll have an eternity and more ahead of us. That's more than enough days to waste. Just think of it as for a good cause."

It's a piece of napkin, Alfred notes. He watches as a pale ghostly hand slowly hovers over it, two fingers pinched together as if trying to pick it up. Frowning in concentration, Arthur retracts his hand as it goes through the material, touching nothing. But undeterred, he tries again.

"Good cause?"

The fingers pass straight through the napkin again.

"Proving people wrong is _always_ a good cause."

"Yeah? Sounds like you— woah."

Alfred stares.

"How'd you _do_ that?"

Floating. The napkin is floating. Hovering slightly over it is Arthur's hand, enshrouded by a blue aura that seems to connect with the object, slowly assimilating the fibre with the glow. Muscles relaxing, the electrifying blueness disappears, but the paper remains levitating, centimetres away from the two fingers. From far away, it almost looks as if Arthur is actually pinching it. But that's impossible... or is it?

Tossing the napkin back onto the table, Arthur flexes his fingers.

"Practise. I noticed a few weird things once in a while. Things that I can't touch... things that I _almost seem_ to be able to touch. Then there's what happened at my house..." A dark look distorts his face, but it disappears quickly. "I would rather not talk about that. However, it did make me wonder what we can do, now that we are ghosts, I mean."

Are they?

"Huh. Never thought about that."

Concentrating, Alfred also attempts to pick up the napkin, making weird faces with each failure. Maybe if he can scrunch his eyebrows _real dense_, like the other blond's, then he'd be able to do it. Instead of coming even _close_ to grabbing the object, he manages to bite himself.

"Ow," Alfred winces, trying to scrape the metallic taste off his tongue. He ignores the doubts, telling him that Francis is right. A dead man doesn't bleed. "Then again, I'd rather not think about that crap all together. It's freaky, man."

"What is?"

All the horror movies he has been forced to endure. The wispy claws coming out of the walls. The paranormal. The skeletons. The scary faces. The blood. The screaming. The doll-like faces and the fish eyes lolling at him.

The creepy, _dead_ stuff.

"The ghost stuff, I mean. Don't tell no one that— not that you got anybody to tell anyways. But I ain't lying when I first flipped out on ya after we took that swim in the ocean. Ghosts scare the _living hell_ outta me. Can you believe it? Me, a _ghost_? Then again, I dunno how I feel 'bout being afraid of myself. Figured I should save myself the existential crisis, so I try not t' think 'bout it."

This time, it's Arthur who stares.

"You're really afraid of ghosts?"

"Uh huh."

"In case you haven't realized, you're _talking_ to one right now."

"You don't count," Alfred defends, giving up on grabbing the napkin. He drops his hands to his sides and laughs. Because, really? "C' mon. You're not scarin' _anyone_ with those caterpillars!"

But he can see how it might be. Now that he has become more familiar with Arthur, he knows that the other is just a big fuzzy-wuzzy, huggable teddy-bear... with the tongue of a venomous serpent and the bite of a ferocious bulldog. Not that he'd ever tell the other that. That action just might send him into his after-after life, and Alfred isn't curious enough to delve deeper into that bundle of semantic problems.

What comes after a ghost? A ghost of a ghost?

One of the aforementioned 'caterpillars' raises sceptically. "You talk about my eyebrows as if they are sentient."

"Well, they might be. In a cute, fuzzy way, or somethin'."

"Children say they are scary."

"Well, I ain't a _kid_."

"Oh, are you now?" he teases. "Did you just grow out of your diapers, _poppet_?"

"Yup. And I'm a big boy now. That means no more bullying from _Artie the Big Bad Meanie_. _Wittle Alfred_ is gonna fight back."

They mock-glare at each other, but eventually, Arthur erupts into breathless laughter. And something in the mood shifts.

It's a subtle change. Angels with trumpets don't sing in the background, and the Earth doesn't stop rotating. Time continues to move forward as it should, and Alfred's heart beats calmly in his chest. The noise of laughter isn't poetically like wind chimes— more like the rough scratches of a machine as it roars into life, really. Arthur doesn't have a nice laugh. Instead, it carries one of those weird pitch that tends to unsettle you or creep you out.

But Alfred can't help but smile back. It's nice, he thinks. He wouldn't mind hearing more of it.

"No. You're worse than a bloody _kid_. At least most children I meet have grown out of being afraid of ghosts."

"Well, now it's proven ghost really _are_ real, so there!" The American is tempted to stick his tongue out, but another thought strikes him. "Though, I dunno. We haven't seen any other ghosts so far. Shouldn't this place be _littered_ full of 'em, not to sound negative or anything, but considering, y' know, how many people die in a day?"

Arthur pauses, eyes widening slightly.

"True." He licks his lips, frowning in puzzlement and slight concern. "Why _aren't_ there any other ghosts around?"

Confused eyes meet Alfred's, but the sunny blond has no answer. Instead, he's still waiting for _the questions_, those seemingly forgotten ones that don't ever come.

Or rather it does, but not in the way he'd expected it to. Not with any hint of accusation, but out of awkward kindness, as if the other isn't _used_ to be nice. As if the other is struggles hard trying to be. And it happens long after they depart from the coffee shop, when the last glimmer of the sunset is swallowed by the night.

* * *

The streetlights illuminate the way for them as the two transparent beings meander from sidewalk to sidewalk. Very little pedestrians are out this late in the residential area, and light pollution has killed most of the stars, leaving them with each other as their sole company. Finding some place to stay is harder than it seems. Arthur, for some reason, is resolute on not returning home, and so is Alfred. This leaves them wandering around the streets, hoping to come across a hotel or an uninhabited house.

"You want to say something?"

Blinking rapidly as they pass under another streetlight, Alfred answers with a very intelligent: "Huh?"

"I mean, you've been staring at me for a while, like I'm about to eat you or some other ridiculous concept. I am not cannibal, in case you have any doubt about it." Arthur's nose wrinkles. "You don't look very tasty anyways. I bet you are one of those Americans who inhale hamburgers like it's oxygen."

"Hey, hamburger's the main dish to every _real_ American lunch break! But nah. It ain't that." Still grinning at the sarcastic remarks, Alfred continues, "I'm just thinking 'bout some stuff. Don't mind me."

"You're _thinking_."

"Ouch, I'm hurt, Artie. Hamburgers and coffee are not the only things on my mind. I do think 'bout other stuff too."

"No, that's not what I meant. It came out wrong." The Briton gestures erratically, looking frustrated. "Well, if I can help— I mean..." Pause. "What I have been trying to say is, you do not have to tell me anything. You can keep your bleeding secrets to yourself. But... I will listen, all right?"

The other is faced away from Alfred, avoiding eye contact like a contagious disease.

"I mean, as the only person who can hear you, I suppose it is a moral obligation to at least hear you out. _But don't get me wrong!_ I'm only saying this because you kept looking at me like your _puppy_ got ran over. Besides, I suppose now that I am dead, I do have the time to spare, even for a bloody prat who looks like he can't tie his own shoe laces. Though if your problems are absolutely silly, I _will_ laugh at you, and— oof! Get off of me!"

"No," Alfred says cheerfully, ignoring the grumbles and curses.

"Unhand me, you brute!" Struggling with the additional weight, Arthur gives up and lets the arm rest over his shoulders. "Of all the..."

"Artie?"

"Don't call me that," he snaps automatically. "But, yes?"

"Thanks. You can be real nice, sometimes."

Gawking like the American has grown three heads, he immediately shoves the other off. "I am not '_nice_'," Arthur enunciates each word slowly, acting as if the word "nice" is an euphemism for the embodiment of all things evil. If scrutinized carefully, you can practically _see_ the blush on his face.

Silly, silly Artie with his silly, silly British accent. Alfred just laughs and slings the arm right back onto the shoulders.

"I'll tell ya," he winks. "But it might be a lil heavy. _Angsty_, y' know? Another one of those teenage bull crap that you probably look down on."

The sandy blond is definitely sulking, but curiosity dances in his eyes at the chance to know. Finally, he grudgingly grumbles, "Try me. It will take a miracle and a half until we find a decent place to stay in, anyways. Might as well pass the time somehow."

"Sure. Though, gotta say, I'm surprised that you haven't asked me earlier 'bout this."

There is still a chance to back out, and logically, Alfred _should_. They have really known each other for a few days— not _nearly_ enough for a heart to heart conversation like this. But he trusts his gut feeling, even if it has led him wrong for more times than he can count. But maybe this time, if only this time, it'll be the right thing to do.

"I'll tell you 'bout Mattie an' me. An' Francis an' Gilbert..."

* * *

**A/N:** I'd like to say thanks to everyone who's been sticking with this story so far, especially to the reviewers. You guys never fail to make me grin 'til my face hurts, in a totally happy way. :D Not in Alfred's messed up way.

Weather report suggests that school is gonna rain tests on us for the next few weeks, but don't worry, I'll stick to the update schedule... even if I have to forcefully staple my fingers to the keyboard for it. My trustworthy stapler is disinfected and ready for the surgical incisions. ;)

So, the USUK is supposed to gradually set in, starting from this chapter... 'til I realized that me plus writing romance equals lots and lots of trauma. I can do bantering. I can do violence. I can do gore. I can do suspense. I can do horror. I can do some f-ed up form of humour which receives odd looks sometimes. I can do sci-fi. I can do action. I can do angst. I can do hate!love. But romance? _Yikes_.

If you guys have any advice, I'm all ears and icky bits of what's left of my brain from that attempt.


	7. Colour of Her Dress pt1

**Warning for this chapter — Lots going on this chapter, so don't read this if you hate spoilers. Language, violence, alcohol, slightly disturbing themes, but nothing too graphic.**

* * *

"Mattie and I don't talk, so I don't know what's going on in his mind," Alfred says, kicking a pebble on the ground. It tumbles off the sidewalk, making an audible racket as it jiggles through the drainage hole. "I mean, we live in the same house, but we never talked. Well, at least not for a long time."

The lights dance across the manhole cover as a car drives through, and the blond absentmindedly lets himself be distracted for a second until the silence becomes oppressing once again.

"The 'rents divorced when we were... around ten? Can't remember it well anymore. Bro went with mom to Canada, and I stayed here with our pops. Didn't see him for a few years, 'til shit happened— a car accident and a morgue later, we're right back to living together again. Rather cliched, if you ask me. I mean, c' mon. Of all the thing that got her, it's her grandma-style driving?" Chuckling humorlessly, he continues, "Anyways, it shook Mattie real bad. Me an' dad, we couldn't do a damn thing for him."

Turning around, he watches Arthur's expression as he says the next part.

"Y' know how they say some people talk to each other, while others _talk at_ each other? Well, I always thought it was bullshit. One of those lines that's more for sounding pretty than anything else. 'Cept it described Mattie and me perfectly."

Despite being a natural chatterbox, Alfred hated the memories of awkward dinner conversations with the microwavable food and the empty chair of a father who's never there. It reminds him of two cell phones calling each other, the speakers desperately trying to convey something. But neither hears because the volumes are muted, and they end up blaming each other for not speaking properly.

His brother was always smiling gently, but his eyes were faraway. Alfred never understood why the other always smiled, until he tried it himself. And in a deranged way, the ghost thinks he understands why.

"Heck, we could probably stay in the same room and talk for _hours_, and neither of us would get anything out of it. No understanding, no progress, _nothing_. And that's why he— why I— I don't know even know why..."

"Why he pushed you off the stairs," Arthur finishes for him, looking thoughtful. "Is that right?"

"What?" Surprised, the younger ghost manages to stutter out, "What— what made you think that?"

"I heard your muttering, after Francis's announcement. After piecing bits and chunks together, I believe I have a general idea of what happened. Francis, that bloody manipulator, is definitely plotting something." Looking annoyed, the other continues, "He believed that you pushed Matthew, but it was Matthew who pushed you. That's what had happened, correct?"

Staring blankly at the Briton, he thinks hard and finally says, "yeah."

Arthur sighs. "I imagine that must have been quite the shock. And you two never resolved the issue afterwards?"

"We didn't talk 'bout it. Just kinda... skirted 'round the topic afterwards. We told dad it was an accident, and socks were slippery. In a way, it was my fault. I knew there were something bothering Mattie, but I figured he could've handled it on his own. He's real strong, y' know? I thought if we gave 'im some time, he could fix himself up just like how he fixed himself after mom passed away."

Feeling self-conscious, Alfred decides to start walking again. The other trails a few steps behind, giving him space.

"Thinking back now, I could've done something. _Anything_. But now? I never will." He kicks another pebble. It lands a few ahead, so he kicks it again, this time with greater force. Flying through the air, it bounces off the wall and disappears in a clump of garbage bags. Quieter this time, he mutters, "All because I hated him."

"You hated him?"

"He sh— I _should_," the American insists. "Someone who does _that_ to their brother. Whoever had done that _should_ be hated— _should_ have their ass kicked for it. But it just... god, it just— just didn't happen. He was so quiet afterwards. It was just _so hard_ to approach him and... and damn it. Years passed. We avoided the topic like crazy. I tried, but I just couldn't bring it up."

Some tiny corner of his mind tells him that he's not making a shred of sense, but Alfred doesn't care. The words flood out without his consent, and he feels like a spectator, witnessing the explosion of an old and worn dam.

"You sound like you're saying that you should hate your brother." Arthur tilts his head, a fuzzy eyebrow raised. "Do you really?"

Bitterly, the former college student laughs, "Who am I kidding? No I don't. Not him. Never him. Mattie is quieter now. He used to smile more— genuinely smile. I killed it. It's probably all my fault."

And wouldn't that be true? While Matthew's mentality is a mystery, he can't help but think that the years of helping people would equip him with better tools to shatter the barrier separating the two. Break the script. Throw out the broken records and start anew.

A hero is supposed to be able to do that, right?

Suddenly, Alfred lunges forward, feeling as if his eyes are about to pop out from. The abrupt smack to his head jolts him out of his reverie, nearly causing him to plant head-first into the concrete. Rubbing the spot, he gawks at the Briton who has one fist clenched and raised.

"Nonsense. Don't blame yourself for what you cannot control. Nobody is expecting an _oblivious idiot_ like you to do anything about it, especially when everyone else can't. So don't be a self-important prat and steal all the blame that doesn't belong to you."

Arms crossed, Arthur stares expectantly at him, and stunned, Alfred stares back. A few seconds later, it clicks.

"Was that... you're trying to— to _comfort me_?"

"What. What's wrong with it?" Those caterpillar eyebrows scrunch up defensively. With the way the sandy blond's body tenses, it reminds Alfred of a hissing cat. "Are there any problems?"

"No. Well, yeah. But only 'cause you suck it." Laughing at the bewilderment on the other's face, Alfred adds, "I mean, first you nearly bagged my brain out. Then you go and insult me. If _that_ is your definition of comfort... Man, what kind of people do you hang out with?"

"The kind that knocks your teeth out if you keep grinning like that."

"Woah, woah," the American backs away, still chuckling despite the impending threat to his person. "Chill. I ain't mocking you or trying to piss you off or anything, promise. But yeah, long story short, that's how it was with me an' Mattie."

Then, there is the _other_ issue to address.

"Then there's Gilbert," he sighs.

"Gilbert..." Arthur ponders. "Now I remember where I heard the name before. There was a photograph on that frog's office wall— I did tell you we were co-workers, right? It had him, Antonio and another bloke who I didn't recognize in it. He told me the man was Gilbert. But he seemed agitated, so I didn't ask further."

_A photo of the Bad Touch Trio._ The American knows them all too well, so he sighs. "Let's find somewhere t' stay first. This one might take a while."

Taking the lead, Alfred drags them through a blurs of streets, using a mental map of the city to guide them. Finally, they arrive under the neon sign that spells out the name of a decent hotel. It doesn't take long to situate themselves in an unoccupied suite, except they had to switch once, because the grumpy Briton refused to stay in a room with incredibly... _noisy_ neighbours.

Alfred secretly thought that it sounded more like guinea pigs getting slaughtered in there, but that led him to wonder just _what_ the couples next door were _doing_. Shivering, the sunny blond tries to banish the image from his mind.

"I suppose I should thank you for your honesty," Arthur grumbles, making himself comfortable on one of the arm chairs. "If we work together, perhaps we can get to the bottom of all this. Perhaps we can also figure out why there are so many bloody coincidences, and why there are no other ghosts around."

Swallowing, Alfred tries to erase the guilt gnawing at the bottom of his stomach.

"Yeah," he lies. "No problem."

Then, without a pause, the sunny blond begins the story.

"I'll tell you what happened two years ago, starting with Gilbert and the blackmailing. It happened a lil after what happened with me an' Mattie, so I was feelin' a bit down..."

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

... hides the colour of her dress. Part 1

**Chapter 7**

* * *

_The rooftop of his high school was not some place the sixteen years old Alfred would ever imagine venturing to, despite the beautiful scenery in the month of May and the peacefulness. He hesitated at the top of the chained fence, peeking up as if expecting a teacher to randomly jump out, roaring for him to get off._

_ "Get up already! Your ass is right in front of my face."_

_ But this was not a normal situation. Hurriedly, the blond jumped onto the flat surface and flung his bag down. Strands of albino hair appeared, soon followed by two hands._

_ "Francis, that meddling pervert, I can't believe he'd blown it so outta proportions that it got onto that _newspaper_," Gilbert Beilschmidt complained, grunting as he hoisted himself up after Alfred. "He's always jumping to conclusions like that, I tell ya. The jerk can care too much about his friends sometimes. What did he thought you were doing again, threatening me?"_

_ "Blackmailing."_

_ "Same thing, same thing. Pfft, the awesome Gilbert can never be blackmailed," the college student flashed a crooked grin. "Anyway, I cleared shit up with him. He knows it's a misunderstanding now. Fuckin' sucks that you lost your entrance to that stick-in-the-mud university, though."_

_ "Nah. Don't worry about it," Alfred shrugged. "There's still another year. 'Sides, I can't afford it anyways, man."_

_ "Hell yeah. Don't be one of those pompous assholes! You should hang around Toni, Fran' and I. We'll show you the real way to live your life." Dropping his own bag, the albino began unloading little pebbles from his pocket. "Now help me with these. I wanna drop it on the skylight of the office and watch the principal blow a gasket."_

_ Sometimes, Alfred thought the other was purposefully _trying_ to get him kicked out of high school. Staring at one of the stones, images of his wreak of a life at home flashed through his mind, and he impulsively picked it up and threw it as hard as he could. The stone bounced off the window with a satisfying clink. Yeah, maybe it's the dumbest idea since the last dumbest idea Gilbert dragged him into._

_ But sometimes, he just didn't care._

_ "So, are those douches in your class still bullying ya?"_

_ "After what we pulled?" For the first time since tumbling onto the rooftop, the teenager managed to crack a smile. "No way. You should've seen how scared they were, after that. The plan worked perfectly. 'Cept your friend's misunderstanding, but it's all cool now."_

_ "_Gut, gut,_" Gilbert cackled. "What made 'em target you anyway? Pissed 'em off somehow? 's it the glasses? I bet it's the nerd glasses."_

_ "Lay off! I like my glasses." Alfred lightly pushed the other over. "I punched one of them in the face early in the year." He shrugged at the unconcealed look of approval from the albino. "They were bullyin' Mattie, 'cause he's too nice and attracts bullies like teen stars attract packs of fan-girls. They've been buggin' me every class ever since."_

_ "Your hero complex is gonna kill ya one of these days." Pretentiously rubbing his chin, the albino suddenly grins. "Your bro's cute. Is he single?"  
_

_ "No."_

_ "Hey hey, you said he wasn't dating anybody the last time I asked!"_

_ "That was before I knew you're out for my lil bro's ass."_

_ "Quite glarin' at me, Jones. It's not cute on ya." Gilbert lighted a cigarette and took a drag. When he blew the smoke out, he made sure to blow it right in front of Alfred's face, disappointed when the other only grimaced and backed away. "You're su—uch an overprotective brother."_

_ "Like you're the one to talk."_

_ "Ludwig doesn't count. Kid, here's an advice for ya. If you wanna make friends with other kiddies your own grade, you gotta turn that frown around and smile more, for fuck's sake."_

_ The glare in the blue eyes hardened as the other patted his head mockingly, like patting a dog. "Shut up, and stop that."_

_ "See? Not cute at all. Aren't ya glad we met at that party? I bet you'd still be a cloud of emo-ness and angst if it wasn't for my awesomeness." Raising his voice, Gilbert called out. "Right, Toni?"_

_ A voice answered them from below._

_ "What are you talking about?" A pair of curious brown eyes stared at them for a few seconds, before the newcomer speedily climbed up the fence, landing on the roof with a quiet grunt. Facing the blond, the brunet smiled. "Hey, Alfred, was it? I've heard about you from Gil."_

_ "Same. Antonio, right?"_

_ "Si! But just call me 'Toni. Anyway, what are you doing here, Gil?"_

_ This was the first time Alfred talked to the Hispanic man, so he just sat back as Gilbert explained his "ingenious" plot to a confused but smiling Antonio. After a while, the conversation changed to about a sports team the other two were both on; apparently they were in the same college. As Gilbert ranted on and on about being awesome, he couldn't help but stare and... stare._

_ And stare._

_ Antonio was still smiling. _

_ He half wondered if the smile was permanently sculptured onto the other's face, because smiling for over thirty minutes must be _painful_._

_ Noticing the weird look, Gilbert explained, "You'll get used to it. Toni's always like that, though lately, he's been even more of an idiot than usual." Sneakily, he whispers in the other's ear. "His childhood sweetheart's moving back in the area. When they were lil, they _pinky-finger promised_ that they would meet again. Isn't that so-o cheesy? Hah, he's such a sap."_

_ "I can hear you," Antonio said cheerfully._

_ "No you can't." Grabbing a handful of rocks, the albino threw all of it at the skylight, and the rocks bounced off like hail, scattering in all directions._

_ "You're gonna get us all in trouble again."_

_ "Kesese! Too bad you two are my friends, yeah?"_

_ Just when Gilbert was about to dump all of it onto the window, a shout from below interrupted them._

_ "_Gilbert! Toni! I don't know what you two are doing up there, but get down! The security is coming!_"_

_ The three glanced at each other._

_ "Shit."_

_ Quickly grabbing their bags, Gilbert threw all of them down before jumping off himself, the other two hastily following behind. The sound of hefty footsteps grew louder, and Alfred could just _imagine_ the anger flashing bright red on the principal's cheeks. It would _suck_ to be suspended, especially after the dirt already on his record. But before he could think, the newcomer— a blond, from the glimpse of hair in his panic— pushed him forward._

_ Turning around to face the stranger, he gaped, and the other pair of blue eyes equally widened._

_ "You!"_

_ Alfred pointed a finger at him. "You!"_

_ "You are the one who vomited all over my brand new skinny jeans!"_

_ "You're the dude who bad-mouthed me all over the newspaper!"_

_ Francis looked offended, "Well, _technically_ it wasn't me per se."_

_ "Uh huh. But you were the one who told the columnist or whoever about—"_

_ "Well, yes. But can you blame me?" He brushed a strand of curly hair away from his face, smirking. "The scene I walked in on certainly wasn't in your favour, dear Alfred. Anyone else would've thought you were the bad guy in that situation. Who would've imagined that you two were collaborating to scare a pack of savages so that—"_

_ "Are you two done bitching at each other? We all know Francis is a mother hen, and Alfred can't hold his drink for shit. Yada, yada." Gilbert wedged himself between the two, nearly tripping Antonio as Francis barraged into him. "If you didn't realize, we're kinda on the verge of death right now. Do this in your spare time!"_

_ "You were the one who got us into this!"_

_ "Meh. Details, details!" Looking back, he cursed. "Shit. They're catching up. Let's book it!"_

_ After twisting through a series of unfamiliar streets and losing all sense of direction, Francis nearly fell down as he gasped for breath. "_Mon dieu_. I can't run anymore!" They were no longer in the residential area, hidden amongst the busy crowd. "I believe that killed two years of my life. Gilbert,_ mon ami_, you really need to think of the _consequences_ of your actions. You're no longer a student there! Why were you on the high school roof in the first place?"_

_ While the two argued, Alfred stared at what appeared to be a strip bar right across the street. Just how far did they run? "It's late." The sun was a dying orange glow near the horizon. "I gotta go home. My bro's waiting for me."_

_ "Leaving so early? Why not join us?" Francis prompted, smiling warmly. What was left of his previous malice faded away, and the teenager thought he slightly understood why Gilbert said that the Frenchman wasn't that bad of a guy. "I have yet to apologize to you."_

_ "C' mon, rock the night out with us. Just follow and chillax. We're gonna have a good time out here."_

_ Alfred looked from the exuberant red eyes of Gilbert, to the acceptance in the green eyes of Antonio, and finally to the genuine warmth in the blue eyes of Francis. All the little things that he had ever wanted but never got. Reluctant and against his better judgement, Alfred ignored the images of his brother at home, alone, and said, "Sure."_

_ That marked the beginning of three months of partying, binge drinking, relentless hangovers, silly pranks, guilt by association, crashing through various shady dives, laughter, and generally messing his own life over thrice. As the blond danced with a girl he had never met before while intoxicated with a drink that he had never heard of before, it was much easier to forget all the other things going wrong in his life. It was easier to not care._

Forgetting one problem by creating another._ Alfred tried smiling at the girl. She giggled in response, so he smiled more. _Gilbert was right. This was the real way to live your life.

* * *

"We were good friends," the ghost explains to the other, smiling fondly after the reminiscence. "Those were the funnest moments in my life. Yeah, we're idiots. And yeah, I got in some deep trouble for it, but in the end, I wouldn't have traded it for the world. It dragged me out from under my cloud, at least for a bit."

Arthur nods, "Is this when Gilbert supposedly... er... committed suicide?"

"You know about that?" The sunny blond blinks in surprise, receiving a shrug in response. "Yeah, but that's not all. That's not even the worst of it..."

"Why did he do it?"

"There's more to it than that. Y' see, one of those nights, we were in the wrong place and wrong time. And we... we witnessed something. Something we weren't supposed to."

* * *

_The colour of her dress was blue._

_ That was Alfred's first thought when he saw the lone girl walking down the moonlit street. Another night of drinking and colourful lights destroyed his vertigo, so he had to grip a nearby electricity pole to re-orientate himself. A hallucination? Maybe he was passed out in a dumpster somewhere and dreaming, but the faint presence of someone beside him reminded the blond of where he was._

_ Real. The girl was real._

_ "Is that a girl over there?" Antonio asked, being the most lucid out of all of them. One of the teenager's arms was slung over his shoulder, and on the other side, Gilbert was leaning on him. "Woah, Gil. Careful. Don't fall over."_

_ "Yanno," the albino slurred, peering over the other's jacket with squinted eyes. "I think that is a girl. What's a girl dressed like that doin' here? It's dan— dangerous here. Even we shouldn't be 'ere. Why're we 'ere?"_

_ It was most likely Gilbert's fault in the first place, but Alfred only rolled his eyes. It was always Gilbert's fault, and the rest of them were always dragged into trouble, guilty by association. Though he was right; they really _shouldn't_ be here._

_ "Perhaps she's a prostitute, Or a ghost," Francis suggested. "She's entering that abandoned warehouse. Isn't that where the newspaper reported gang activities? I heard they even smuggled guns and raped young girls. Maybe she is the spirit of a victim?"_

_ Tripping over a step, Alfred groans. "You coulda just left it at the prostitute part. Don't talk about ghosts. My head is hurtin' as it is."_

_ "You're scared?"_

_ "No way."_

_ "Alright!" Gilbert suddenly declares, nearly toppling both him and Antonio over with the sudden movement. "I dare you to follow her into that shady warehouse!"_

"It was probably the _dumbest_ idea ever," Alfred admits. "All of us knew it was a dumb idea. We knew how seedy that area was at night, how there were gang activities and stuff. It was always on the local news... murders, drug deals, _rape_. But we were drunk and down with dumb ideas. So it ain't nothin' new."

_ The blue of her skirt vanished into the darkness of the warehouse before any of them moved._

_ "Hey, she's getting away! Let's go, guys."_

_ "You creep," Alfred slapped the albino's shoulder, but even as he said this, they started walking towards the abandoned warehouse. Tiny flickers of lights penetrated through the broken windows, but none of them noticed. "She's gonna think we're stalking her. Just let the girl be."_

_ "I'm not a creep! If anybody's a creep 'ere, 's Francis!"_

_ "Me? How can _anybody_ accuse me of being a creep?" The Frenchman floundered melodramatically. "Is it a sin to express my affection towards the world? If anyone is the creep here, that would be 'Toni here with his pedo tendencies!"_

_ "Me?" Antonio gasped. "But, but... huh?"_

_ "Nothing." Gilbert rolled his eyes, "You're so clueless."_

_ "Yup, he is."_

_ "Like you're the one to talk, Al."_

_ The warehouse door approached closer and closer as they joked and teased._

* * *

"Later we found out that her name was Natalia Braginski. She's a pretty famous figure around these areas. A real beauty too."

Enough to blind four drunk teens and lead them to their downfall.

"Thinkin' back now, one reason that I didn't object to followin' her is probably because she was so pretty. I dunno— m-my mind was fuzzy 'cause of the alcohol. I probably deluded myself into thinkin' that maybe she needed help or something. It _was_ a dangerous place. I was.. kinda worried."

_Even now, Gilbert was right_, Alfred notes. His hero-complex _did_ lead him to his death one day, on that bridge with Arthur. But back then with the Russian woman, it wasn't _him_ who had to pay for it.

"Natalia?" Arthur frowns in puzzlement. "I have never heard of her."

"You're lucky then. That means you never had any dealings with... _them_." Trying to not reveal how badly his body is shaking, Alfred explains, "Natalia is the sister of Ivan Braginski, the young leader of the single criminal organization that ran and still _runs_ the city. Many cities, actually. Their influence is pretty big. We really had no idea what we were getting into."

* * *

_ "Hey. How do you open this thing?"_

_ Gilbert examined the door, trying to find a handle. It was worn, but sturdy despite its years of abuse. Even though they pushed with all their efforts, the door would not budge even for an inch. But of course, all of them were drunk if not buzzed. It also didn't help that Antonio accidentally stepped on all of their toes, and Francis kept trying to grope all of them._

_ "Weird," the brunet made a face. "I swear I saw the pretty girl go in here. Where did she go?"_

_ "Maybe she really _is_ a ghost."_

_ "C-c'mon. Don't say that."_

_ Gilbert pointed triumphantly at Alfred, although he missed by a good forty five degree angle and nearly fell face first. "Hah! I knew you were scared!"_

_ "Am not!"_

_ "Yeah, you are!"_

_ "Mes amis, I'd hate to interrupt. But look at what I found."_

_ Reluctantly, the albino let go of the blond. Gathering around Francis, all of them gazed up at what appeared to be the remains of an air vent. The metallic cover was twisted, screws loose and rusted. One side of it had a large hole tangled with spider webs, big enough for a giant rat to crawl through. And if the entire cover was removed, it was easily big enough for a drunk teen to crawl through. _

_ All in all, it looked like a bad idea just waiting to be followed through._

_ "Well?" Francis raised an eyebrow, looking oddly proud. "What do you two think?"_

* * *

Most people aren't aware of who runs in the city as they sleep at night, so Arthur's astonishment at the piece of information doesn't surprise him.

"I didn't know there was something like.. like _that_ in the city," the Briton stammered. "How come the law enforcements didn't do anything about them?"

"Braginski can pull a lot of strings. He can make people... _vanish_. Poof. Just like that." Alfred smiles bitterly. "I guess you wouldn't believe it unless you had seen it. But trust me, they exist. I guess you can call them the Mafia."

* * *

_ "Oof! Quit pushing!"_

_ "Stop kicking, Gil!" Antonio exclaimed. "You nearly got my eye!"_

_ "...Please tell me that it's not a spider that landed in my hair," Francis uttered solemnly._

_ "It's not a spider that landed in your hair."_

_ "You're lying, aren't you?"_

_ Finally, Gilbert had enough. "Oh for fuck's sake, just get going!"_

_ With the vigorous strength of an ace athlete, the albino pushed them out of the tiny confinement and into a wider area. Several other pathways intersected at this point. Alfred's fingers brushed across an air vent opening, and he looked down to see bright lights. The stench in the air vent made Alfred's nostril crinkle in distaste, so he was glad to finally have some fresh air._

_ "Hey look. We can see what's goin' on down there."_

_ "Looks like," Alfred squints his eyes, slowly getting used to the brightness. "A group of people?"_

_ They grinned at each other in excitement._

_ "Cool! Lemme see!"_

_ "Damn it, stop pushing!"_

_ "Ow!"_

* * *

Alfred's face is pale. "Then we saw it. We s-saw..."

* * *

_ There was the girl in the blue dress, and there was a group of men holding various funny grey things. They were smiling, and the room was lit by several beams of flashlights, all focused on a single point in the room. The girl in the blue dress._

_ But there was something different about her._

* * *

"The colour of her dress—"

* * *

_..._Wasn't blue_, Alfred thought. _The colour of her dress wasn't blue.

_ And those funny grey things weren't funny grey things. They were guns, knives, and even metal pipes, all glowing a deathly amber in the lantern light. The men weren't smiling. They were grinning dark, sadistic grins as one of them kicked her over. And it somehow registered through the blond's alcohol-hazed mind that those were discoloured, vicious bruises on her skin, on her face, everywhere._

_ Desperate, purple eyes suddenly met his, through the slits of the ceiling air vent. Scarred lips formed a single soundless word, as one of the men crouched down, grabbing her throat._

_ "_Help._"_

_ The colour of her dress wasn't blue. The thought reiterated in his head like a mantra, and just as suddenly his stomach lurched at the sight of her ruined dress. It was_—

* * *

"It.. It was..."

* * *

_ —blue, dyed crimson._

* * *

"A murder."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry, for being a week late. Writer's block plus school. It's the same old story. But I'll keep up with the original schedule, so expect another update next week. I just realized that I never responded to the anonymous reviews, so here, I'll do so now:

To **Anelexis**: Late reply, but I'm happy you're enjoying it so far. This story is gonna get darker. Just wait. ;)

To **Chayton**: Thanks. Glad you like it. I'll try to not disappoint, especially with the romance (or the lack of), haha.

If I hadn't published this, I probably would've gotten sick of this fic a long time ago. So thanks for all the feedback from the last chapter and the motivation push. ;D I swear, every time I write this story, the writing style changes. While I'm still not really satisfied with this chapter, I've been holding it for hostage for a while. Happy late Halloween, readers! If I die of diabetes, you'll know what happened. C:

**-Edge**


	8. Colour of Her Dress pt2

**Warning for this chapter — Pretty big one, actually. If you've seen where the previous chapter left off, you'll have a good idea of what's coming next. Skip all the way to the chapter 8 mark if you're not good with any of the following: violence, gore, torture, implied rape, death, and disturbing contents in general. My specialty.**

* * *

_ Somewhere between being scared to death and passing out in a puddle of his own vomit, Alfred heard the last of the laughing soundtrack— a typical product of being around his friends and alcohol— die out._

_ None of them were uttering a sound now, eyes glued to the scene taking place below them. Gilbert and Francis had no snide comments to add for once in their life, while Antonio's smile dropped entirely. For a disconcerting second, Alfred wondered again if he was dreaming, because these sort of things just didn't happen on an average Friday night. Maybe it was the alcohol, blurring his vision so much that he was hallucinating. Yeah, that was it._

_ He rubbed his eyes and looked down again._

_ The girl's vivid purple eyes met his again, and his heart skipped a beat._

_ Hell, she was real._

_ Briefly, he wondered just how many times he had to remind himself of that fact until—_

_ A scream scorches through the silence like acid, nearly making Alfred jump out of his skin. The girl thrashed and clawed at the knife that tore through her bicep, but hands quickly restrained her wrists and ankles. An subordinate gave the first man a rope, which he accepted with an aloof nod. They tied her up, two arms and legs spread like a helpless frog in a dissecting tray. Or a pinned butterfly._

_ "Let me go!" She spat, the fire never dying in her eyes. "My brother will never let any of you get away with this!"_

_ "Girl, the days of Braginski's reign are over. So just be good and stay still, hmm?"_

_ The leader patted the girl's cheeks lovingly, as if caressing an exotic pet._

_ "Ow!" He hissed when the girl bit him, and the amused smirk transformed into a dark frown. "Looks like the bitch still hasn't learnt her lesson. Boys, what do you say we do to her? Let's show her just _who_ she's messin' with!"_

_ The wild hooting began, loud and raucous like a group of barking dogs. It reminded Alfred of one of those human slavery rings he'd heard about in books or movies, only the competitors were shouting out their own sick fantasies instead of the digits in their wallet._

_ "Kill her!"_

_ "Strangle an' break her neck!"_

_ Sick._

_ "Gorge her heart out and feed it to her!"_

_ It was—_

_ "Stab out her eyes!"_

_ "Rape her fuckin' cunt!"_

_ "Remember that scene in tha' psycho book— wha's it called?— wi' the rat an' the cheese. Let's imitate that!"_

_ Sickening._

_ "How 'bout a more original approach? We can always steal some... _props_ from the nearby corner store."_

_ Disgusting._

_ "Or better! First, let's fuck her, do _all_ of that, then we'll cut her uterus out and deliver it to Braginski! Tha'll show 'im for killin' our brothers!"_

Horrifying.

_ Alfred was going to puke._

_ "Gentlemen," the leader chuckled, leering at the tinniest glint of fear that shone through in the girl's eyes as the morbidly graphic descriptions continued on. "Watch your mouths. We have a delicate lady in front of us, after all. Perhaps it would be better to... ah, _demonstrate_ it instead, hmm?"_

_ Exchanging similar crooked smirks, the men trudged forward. At the slightest nod of approval from their leader, they shot out like hungry animals, reaching for whatever revealed flesh available. The girl screamed once again as a rough hand tore the front of her dress open, fingerprints roaming across the surface of her skin. _

_ "Go to hell!" She snarled defiantly._

_ Abruptly, her head was flung to the other side by a callous and resounding slap. "We _are_ in hell," the leader said, laughing like he meant every single word of it._

_ As one man smashed her skull down onto to the cement floor, she kept a tiny slit of purple pupil open, staring right into the air vent. _I know you're there_, the eye seemed to say,_ coward, why aren't you helping me?

_ But Alfred couldn't move. His conscience was screaming bloody murder at him. _Do something, damn you!_ But his body refused to move— _refused, _like it actually had the right to in a critical moment like this!— frozen in a spell of horror until—_

_ "Woah. Check that out. Dude, that almost looks real."_

_ Gilbert's whisper of disbelief shattered the motionlessness that seemed to have encased the four. Jolted out of his stupor, Alfred's eyes widened. Now was not the time to be sitting around and doing... nothing! He had to help somehow, but.. but how? His brain struggled to function, the alcohol haze still clouding his thoughts despite the second of clarity._

_ "Guys! We have to help her!" Alfred hissed, looking away from the scene. The blood... Those sounds of shattering bones... Hell, anymore and he was going to puke. _Oh god, the screams...

_ "W-what should we do?" Antonio anxiously scanned around the area. "What _can_ we do?"_

_ Blankly taking in his friends' reactions, Gilbert announced, "Fuck. This isn't a dream, is this?"_

_ "...Mon dieu," Francis whispered. By now, he was the only one whose eyes still remained fixated on the scene. There was a strange intensity to it— some tiny corner of Alfred's mind noted in confusion— as if he was unable to tear his eyes from it. "That's Natalia."_

_ "Who's that?" Pause. Then impatiently, "Never mind, never mind! How do we help her?"_

_ "How should I know?" Alfred snapped back, panicking as well._

_ "Well, do something!"_

_ "No, you do someth—"_

_ "How can I? I'm smashed, dizzy, and seein' three of everything!"_

_ "Well I am too—"_

_ "We should phone the police," Antonio interrupted the agitated whispers, looking around at all of them. "Do any of you have your phone? I didn't bring mine."_

_ Searching through his pocket, Alfred cursed. Where was his phone when he needed it? "I think I lost mine."_

_ "Here." Gilbert produced a sleek black cell phone and flipped it open. There was a blinking red bar. "Battery low, but it'll work." Just as he was about to press the first key, another scream echoed through the warehouse. The hand holding the phone shook badly, and he punched in the wrong number. "Damn it. I- I can't even see t' screen clearly."_

_ "_Merde._" Francis was still looking down, an expression of utter horror on his face. "They're.. they just broke her fingers. And they're trying to cut the bones out! Hurry, Gilbert!"_

_ "Don't describe it to me!" Wailing, the albino erased the entry and started again, squinting at the blurry numbers. But another horrendous scream made him fumble, nearly dropping the phone. "Shit. Someone else do this! My hand's shakin' too much!"_

_ "Here! I'll do it—"_

_ "Pass it over!" Alfred reached out for the phone just in time as Antonio grabbed it, and the phone flew off the albino's palm. Tumbling off his centre of gravity, the brunet strained to catch it, but his elbow connected with the air vent cover with a loud _smash_. Screws creaked, and before any of them could react, the cover fell off._

_ It landed right on top of the gang leader's head, earning a surprised yelp. _

_ The cellphone was next._

_ Reacting quickly, Alfred tried to reach for it, and he felt the world proceed in slow motion. Erratic heartbeat pulsated in his eardrums as adrenaline fuelled his quick reflexes. But just when the tip of his finger connected with the surface— just when the tinniest flicker of hope blossomed,_ that everything just might be alright_— time seemed to suddenly fast forward, and gravity's claws grasped hold of the object before he could. _

_ Fingers sifted through empty air._

_ And he cursed all the movies that he watched where the time slowed down at a vital moment and the protagonist could think fast enough for a solution, because that never happened in real life. Out of reach, the cellphone fell._

_ It felt like a mocking eternity and more just to watch the _damn thing_ fall, and then—_

Squelch.

_ The gangsters froze— every single head turning, every single eye diverted from their leader, and every single living being focused on the black contraption that fell from the ceiling. Alfred and the college students held their breath._

_ Silence._

_ The cellphone broke the stillness with a vibration and a beep, cheerfully supplying that it was out of batteries before flickering off, all while innocuously perched on the girl's carved open heart._

* * *

**Beneath the Bridge**

...hides the colour of her dress. Part 2

**Chapter 8**

* * *

Letting his bizarre recounting of the event settle, Alfred stands up to pace around the window. His body is restless, and the bases of his palms are sweaty. He can feel Arthur's eyes on his back, thoughts unknown. The other hasn't spoken for a while.

"Afterwards, we just dropped everything and ran like bats from hell." The ghost has to try hard to keep the tremor from taking over his voice. "I_—_ I don't remember. Everything's a blur. I stayed in bed for the whole weekend, not getting a wink of sleep. Nobody called to hang out. I guess they were all shocked too." He chuckles dryly. "You should've seen the bags under our eyes. We looked more like zombies than zombie do."

It's a bad memory, one that he thought is over and done with. But apparently Francis is now knocking on catacomb doors and stirring up the dead for one reason or another. He'll need Arthur's help if they ever want to get to the bottom of this.

"I know all of this sounds unbelievable, but it's true."

Arthur shrugs. "No more believable than dying and being turned into a ghost with poltergeist powers, at least."

"Hey, you're right! I still can't decide if I should be scared or not. 'Cause while ghosts are the scariest thing since _unsliced_ bread, being afraid of myself is— uh, pretty damn lame." Alfred grins, temporarily amused by the thought, but he shakes his head. "Anyway, it was pretty quiet for a while after that. We didn't tell anyone. We tried to call the cops a few times, but all of us chickened out in the end. The whole thing was _surreal_. I mean.. _can you believe it?_ An actual _murder_?"

Sighing, the sunny blond hops back down onto the mattress, momentarily marvelling at the way the surface seems to bounce slightly, despite his supposed immaterial body.

"But it wasn't over. All of us knew it wasn't. That's why we were so desperate to forget it, even a week later..."

* * *

_ "Do you think I should buy a teddy bear for him? It's been so long! What if Lovi's changed? I mean he used to love stuffies when we were kids, but most people grow out of them, right? Oh, but his brother never did. So maybe he'd like them too. Yes? No? Yes? No? I don't mind stuffies either. Do you still like stuffies, Alfred?"_

_ Sighing, Alfred rolled his eyes at the moon in the sky, tempted to just hang up the phone despite the plea in Antonio's voice. The Spaniard was a force to be reckoned with when he was _this_ flustered, acting like a giddy schoolgirl. It made walking down the street while attempting to eat highly difficult._

_ "Stuffies are nice," he said, taking a bite out of his burger and chewed very loudly. Anything to get the other off the other end of the receiver, really. "Get him a stuffy." Munch, munch. "Go cwall Guilbwer'. 'M chwying t' eat"_

_ From what he had heard of this _Lovino_ character, stuffies probably wouldn't receive very good receptions._

_ "Gilbert lost his phone, remember?"_

_ Tripped a step._

_ Paused._

_ Started walking again._

_ "Then try Fran'. I heard he's good at romantic advice."_

_ Advice to getting one of those vicious, earthshaking slap on the cheek in the romantic dramas, that is. Though the Frenchman _could_ give good advices; he suspected the other didn't want to, especially at the expense of losing the opportunity to watch Antonio trip all over himself for childhood love._

_ The brunet didn't take the hint, but then again, Alfred usually didn't either. "Wait, wait! But what animal should I get him? Al, this is important," he whined, which was what he had been doing for the past twenty minutes— ever since Francis probably decided to screen calls, and Ludwig had been threatening bodily damage should the oblivious man ever call Gilbert's house phone again._

_ "He's coming tomorrow! If I get him an animal he doesn't want, maybe he'll think it's a prank and hate me. And what about the colour choices? There are seven colours in the rainbow to choose from. Maybe I should get one of each and ask him which one he likes the best, or would that be too creepy? Maybe I should just buy him a rainbow plushie! Help, it's a crisis! What should I do?"_

_ In a way, Alfred was glad that Antonio hadn't realized how much he sounded like a teenage girl panicking about the choice of clothes to wear on a date. Because if he had, the brunet would actually start panicking like a teenage girl before a date _for real_, and Alfred really had no wise sayings to offer in terms of fashion statements._

_ "Buy him a glow-in-the-dark octopus," the blond said randomly. "See ya later, 'Toni."_

_ "But what colour should it glow—"_

_ Click._

_ Alfred returned to chewing on his hamburger, which had gone cold in the cool night breeze. As he walked down the street, ignorant of his surroundings, guilt gnawed at his conscience once the irritation died down. He knew tomorrow was a big day for his friend.__ Maybe he should have been nicer?_

_ His cellphone's ring-tone sounded again, and exasperated, he pulled the cursed device out of his pocket. The screen blared in light, caller ID showing a name which he barely glanced at because he knew who it was going to be—_

_ Except it wasn't._

_ Not Antonio, no._

_ Gilbert Beilschmidt, said the unblinking text on the screen._

_ He slowly checked the number displayed right underneath._

_ It was Gilbert's mobile phone._

_ His first instinct screamed at him to drop the phone, and he did. Except it didn't help because the ringtone was still going off, contracting an eerie quality in the wake of the empty street. It made flashy colours and vibrated like crazy, and Alfred suddenly received the perturbing image of his phone, crawling zombie-style across the ground, trying to eat him. But he shook his head before the idea of paranormal stuff at work consumed him._

Just who was this?_ The last time he had seen the albino's phone was on the girl's—_

Stop. Don't think.

_ Shakily, Alfred picked it up again, thoughts running miles per minute. Should he...? No. No. No. Answering was a bad idea, but what if it was all paranoia? He'd be scaring himself silly over nothing! Except if it wasn't paranoia, then prospects did not look good for him. But before a decision could be reached, the phone stopped ringing, and it entered voice mail._

_ "Good evening, Jones. What a pleasant weather we have tonight, especially to take a walk in the dark with no companion, hmm?" The voice was unfamiliar and grotesquely lighthearted in the atmosphere. "Turn around."_

_ Alfred didn't._

_ But foreign fingers suddenly fell onto his shoulders, and—_

_ someone else—_

_ did it— _

_ for—_

_ ...him._

* * *

"It was chloroform. Typical rag to mouth and nose method. When I woke up, we were..." Alfred swallows, losing his voice. Closing his eyes, he can almost picture the scene happening on the back of his eyelids. "When I woke up, I saw a bunch of other people I knew. Some were still passed out. I guess they were also kidnapped. Me, Gil, 'Toni, Fran', and a few other of Gil's friends were bound by ropes, huddling together. It was on a bridge— y-yeah, the one we fell off from. We were tied to the railings, and Braginski... was there... smiling at us."

Eyeing him sympathetically, Arthur interrupted. "Let us take a break. You don't have to tell me everything in one night. Would you like some water?"

"No, it's fine." He shook his head. "I need to do this. 'Else... 'else I'd lose nerves."

Clearing his throat, the blond shakily begins again.

"Braginski was smiling at us, but every single person there could tell that he was _furious_."

* * *

_ "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I see that all of you are now awake." _

_ The man had a Russian accent— that was what jolted Alfred out of his daze, and what caused murmurs of fear from the hostages. The man smiled down at them, long pale scarf blowing in the wind like twin serpents coiled around his neck._

_ From the dim lighting offered by the streetlights, the man's eyes gleamed purple._

_ "I'm sure you are wondering why I have invited all of you out here. Though you don't need to worry about interruptions. I made sure to barricade this bridge in advance for tonight... constructions, y' see. So nobody will be bothering us." He gestured widely. "Although I didn't send out warnings beforehand, and for that I apologize for my rudeness. But this is important, you see. I'm sure all of you would understand, _da_?"_

_ One of the men, looking old enough to one of Gilbert's college friends, were the first to snap. "Cut this bullshit! What the hell is this thing?" He struggled against the restraints. "Whaddaya want with us? Who t' hell are ya?"_

_ "An excellent question." The Russian flashed his teeth in a way that was probably intended to be customer-friendly, only it made him appear more like a psychopath. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ivan Braginski, the leader of a rather... ah, _famous_ criminal syndicate around these areas. Perhaps you have heard of the Braginski family business. Perhaps not. It matters not."_

_ The arrogant young man laughed. "Criminal? Family business? You sayin' yer some bigshot from the _Mafia_?" The remarked earned several tense smiles from the captives._

_ When the Russian produced a blood-tattered pipe from under his coat, all the smiles froze._

_ "Would you like a demonstration?"_

_ Hesitant at first, but then fervent, the other shook his head._

_ "Good, good. I do not condone violence after all. If all of you cooperate, we'll all be good friends. Now peace is what I want, and peace is what you want too, da?"_

_ A wave of nods._

_ Taking this opportunity, Alfred glanced at Antonio who was strapped right beside him. Fearful brown eyes returned the look, none of the enthusiasm heard from the phone earlier of the night. Scanning around, he found Francis a few heads to the left, then there was a tiny glimpse of albino hair behind the woman who he remembered was Gilbert's ex-girlfriend, Elizaveta. But she moved, and the white was gone._

_ "I'm sure we will all get along wonderfully. Now, I require all of your help with something. Or rather, I require information." Holding up a black cellphone right under the blare of the streethlight, Ivan continued, "Does any of you recognize this?"_

_ Nobody made a sound, not wanting to draw any attention for themselves._

_ The mafia leader tapped the metal pipe against the railing, humming a cheerful tune. Each tap earned several flinches from the captives._

_ "It's, uh, a phone?"_

_ That voice— Alfred noted— it was Gilbert._

_ "And?"_

_ "And it's sleek black and awesome. What's your point?"_

Damn it, Gilbert._ Alfred groaned, innerly wanting to slap his forehead._ Can you be any more obvious?

_ "And?"_

_ Almost reluctantly, the albino added: "And there's splotches on it. I take that's not red paint, is it?"_

_ "Wouldn't you know, Gilbert Beilschmidt?" Ivan smiled indulgently at him, like how a person would smile at something precious or endearing. Gilbert fitted neither of the terms, as far as the blond knew. "After all, this is your property, right?"_

_ "So what if it's mine? I've been lookin' all over for it. Give it back."_

_ "Return the property to its proper owner, I see. However you lost the right of its ownership..." Abruptly, the man's eyes widened, pupils glowing in purple fury. The voice rose in volume, escalating to the point that he was almost shouting. "When you deposited this cellphone right inside my sister's slit-open, bloodied heart!"_

_ Flinching as if slammed, Alfred pushed back until he was right against the railing, and beside him, he could feel that Antonio was doing the same. His heartbeat grew erratic, and finally, it hit him just how seriously the situation was. Ivan, the powerful criminal leader, found his sister dead and mutilated, with the only incriminating evidence of a sleek black cellphone stuck in her unresponsive heart._

_ Were they... were they even going to get out of this alive?_

_ "Alfred," the brunet whispered, fear seeping into his voice. "I... I don't want to die."_

_ "I know. Stop worrying. We're not gonna die."_

_ Ignoring his hollow lie, Antonio continued quietly, "Lovi. I wanted to meet Lovi again, after all these years. Looks like I won't, will I?" His shoulders were drooped in defeat, and his eyes stared blankly at the cement ground._

_ For a moment, Alfred understood how devastating this must be for his friend, who had been looking forward to tomorrow for months now. His childhood friend was all that Antonio could blab about lately, and it was cute— if not annoying. To be so close to your dream, yet have such an insurmountable obstacle in your face... It must be tough._

_ There were tears on the brunet's cheeks._

_ As quickly as the man blew up, Ivan was all smiles and warmth within a matter of second. "Tut, tut. Don't look like a frightened bunny now, silly Gilly! All I ask is for you to answer some questions. That's all. Then all of you can go home safely. I'm a good host, after all."_

_ "It was an accident," Gilbert insisted, growing desperate. "We were drunk, and, and we thought it was a good idea at that time. To climb into the air vent of some shaggy warehouse, I mean. Hell yeah, it sounds dumb now, but what doesn't when you're sober? And the cover flew off, and the fucking cellphone flew down too. And it wasn't supposed to land there. I was tryin' to call the cops to _save_ your sister, not kill her! Some other group of punks were down there, and they did... they... damn it... they were the one who cut her up."_

_ Slowly, the Russian nodded. "I see..."_

_ Relief breezed through them for a second that maybe the mafia leader would understand. And maybe he'd really let them all go without harm._

_ "...So you had accomplices. Wonderful."_

_ "What?" Gilbert croaked. "No! No! Haven't you been listening? There was a gang there or something, I dunno, and—"_

_ "These _good friends_ of yours are amongst these people I've gathered, right? Almost everyone from the contact list on your cellphone is here." The venomous eyes flitted across the line of hostages, a mismatch with the wide smile on his lips. "I'll ask them how it really happened. Maybe they'll back you up."_

_ Walking to the first person in line, he asked:_

_ "Were you with Gilly last Friday?"_

_ The person shook his head and said, "N-no." The voice wasn't someone who Alfred recognized, and Ivan continued down the line, repeating the same question in a whimsical tone. He lingered longer on some captives, smiling happily until they nearly broke down out of fear. For others, he tapped his iron pipe an inch above their heads, receiving cries of fear in return._

_ "Were you with Gilly last Friday?"_

_ "Me? No way. I was watching a movie with friends."_

_ "I see. Hmm, then as his friend, would you say he would do something like this?"_

_ "Murdering someone? Maybe. He's always been an annoying troublemaker, and I'm not his friend anyways."_

_ It was pretty cruel— the things that people could say when trying to save themselves._

_ Out of them all, Antonio was the closest in line for the interrogation. Alfred peaked at the brunet; his friend was shaking badly._

_ Finally, Ivan was a step beside him, looking down curiously at Antonio in a way that reminded him of an overgrown child. Alfred tried to shake the deceptive image out of his head, silently vouching for the safety of his friends._

_ "Were you with Gilly last Friday?"_

_ Trembling lips parted, forming one soft syllable that said, "No."_

_ From faraway, there was a breath that hitched, and then: "T-Toni?"_

_ "No. Last Friday night, I was at h-home."_

_ Ivan nodded, looking oddly delighted despite receiving the same response from all the people. Which was weird, unless... _He calculated this!_ Alfred suddenly realized._ He was doing this to torture Gilbert! _This Braginski man knew the truth all along and was trying to turn all of Gilbert's friends against him._

_ "Were you with Gilly last Friday?"_

_ Blinking up at the tall, sadistic man, the blond suddenly realized exactly what he was supposed to say to end this charade, to break this chain of deceits. And he opened his mouth to do so, but the Russian suddenly tilted his head, a hand on his chin as if pondering about something._

_ "Hmm... Alfred F. Jones was it? I still remember your name from Gilly's frequently called list. You have a sibling just like I do... _da?_ Matthew is such a nice child." Ivan sighed and shook his head. "My sister can learn a thing or two from him... _and vice versa_."_

_ That was a threat._

_ "Hmm, hmm! Oh, don't mind my nonsense. What were you saying, Alfie?"_

_ He couldn't involve Matthew in this. Cornered, the blond gritted his teeth and managed to grind out, "I was with 'Toni that night."_

Good boy_, the wide smile of approval seemed to say._

_ "Alfred?! Why..."_

_ That was Gilbert, shock and betrayed. The blond turned away, loathing himself for what he couldn't do. Alfred kept his eyes on the ground as their captor continued down the line. The first drops of rain landed on his face, gradually increasing in volume as he listened to his friend sob silently beside him. The same question asked. The same responses repeated. Nobody was willing to support Gilbert._

_ "But he had you on your contact list, didn't he?" Ivan said._

_ "That loser? Nah, he ain't my friend. Just a loudmouth who I had to work on a project with."_

_ It wasn't enough that they didn't support the albino. They also had to deny any relations and spit on Gilbert's friendship too. Humming as if it was the funnest sport in the world, Ivan moved down the line. This time, he reached Francis._

_ "Were you with Gilly last Friday?"_

_ No response._

_ Without a warning, Ivan smashed the iron pipe a few inches beside Francis' neck. "Were you with Gilly last Friday?"_

_ No response._

_ "Looks like you need some help with talking, but it's okay! I am full of help. Let's see.. what should I say about your parents...?"_

_ "No help is needed, thank you. I'll talk," Francis said evenly. "Gilbert didn't lie. It was an accident. He was right when he said there was a gang there, and they were the reason your sister is now.. deceased."_

_ Surprised, the Russian took a step back. He obviously wasn't expecting an obstacle to his plan. "That so? How do you know?"_

_ "I was with him."_

_ "I see." The facade returned. "That would make sense."_

_ "Francis, thanks." The relief in Gilbert's voice was overwhelming. Turning to Ivan, he asked: "Do you believe me now?" _

_ "Gilly, Gilly, you silly idiot. I've done my research," Ivan chirped. "I know all about the rival gang." Then beaming brightly, he added: "You don't need to worry about reporting them to the police. I made them all disappear. Poof, it's a magic trick! But maybe a limb or two are left behind, if you're interested in hauling them into the station on the charge of rape and murder."_

_ From the glimpse of the albino's face, Alfred could tell he was aghast. "Then—"_

_ "The reason I've.. _invited_ you and every single contact on your cellphone out here is not something as petty as that. No, no." Walking along the line of trembling people, the man smiled at every single one of them. He lasted a second longer by Alfred, until the blond cringed. And he moved on. "It's because you, and your friends, watched my sister being tortured to death and didn't do anything about it."_

_ "We tried! It wasn't like we were just sittin' around with popcorn or anything! We just couldn't find a way to help!"_

_ "In the underworld, do you know what happens to people who fail?" Without waiting for a reply, Ivan said: "Their head goes pop."_

_ He laughed at the way Gilbert jolted back, as if shot._

_ "If you knew all along what happened... why, why did you ask all of that crap?"_

_ "Because you watched my sister suffer, I want to watch you suffer. It's only fair, da?" Ivan crouched down, so he was at eye level with the albino. "I want to have all of your friends betray you, badmouth you, denounce your friendship. I want you to break, just like how they broke my sister. You yourself have a sibling, right? A little brother who you raised by yourself, because your parents are gone."_

_ Gilbert froze. "If you _dare_ touch Ludwig—"_

_ "I won't. But I'll destroy his respect for you. I'll make it seem like you killed yourself, while drunk and high, leaving your poor brother alone in the world to fend for himself. How much of a failure would you feel like, I wonder?"_

_ "You said you would leave us alone if I told the truth!" The albino protested. "You said you would let us go safely!"_

_ Turning to the nearest captive, Ivan asked: "Did I say that?"_

_ Flinch. "N-no."_

_ "You damn well did! You—"_

_ "Gilbert, you liar," Ivan tutted. "It's not very nice to put words in my mouth."_

_ Sucking in a hiss of air, the albino closed his eyes and _headbutted the man_. There was a flurry of movement, the sound of struggling, and then a scream of pain. Alfred couldn't see what was going on, but nobody around him made a sound. Eventually, Braginski stood up, dragging a beaten Gilbert like a battered doll to Francis._

_ "You ruined my plan. Very brave, but very stupid. For that, I'll reward you," he said, waggling his finger. There was a jagged ring coiled around it, ivory in the streetlight. For some reason, it reminded Alfred of bone. "You get to watch me torture Gilly. You get to watch your good friend die, helpless because you can't do a thing."_

_ Turning around, Braginski smiled saintly._

_ "To those who were with him— I know who you are— but don't worry! I won't do anything to you. Instead, you'll suffer by living. To have the blood of your friend stained on your hands forever, how does it feel?"_

_ Nodding to his men situated nearby, the young mafia leader met Alfred's eyes as he was leaving._

_ "There are worse things than death, after all."_

_ Afterwards, they were gagged and blinded, but very few people struggled. Alfred was limp, stomach tumbling with a swirl of foreign emotions. And though he couldn't see, he could hear the screaming turn hoarser and hoarser. He could hear squelches and the happy remark of a madman. He could hear something that sounded a lot like vomiting, which made him want pull his hands from the restraints and claw at his ears._

_ But most of all, Alfred heard silence, then the splash of water, like a body tumbling straight into the open mouth of the abyss of an ocean below._

* * *

**A/N:** Whew. This was a tough one to write.

Ivan first appeared in chapter two, just in case it's been too long ago and everyone forgot. I hope this answered some of the underlying questions about Gilbert, Ivan, and a lil bit about the ring too. If you're bored by all the flashbacks ('cause I am), don't worry. We're hopping back to present time, and Arthur's POV. ;)

Thoughts, comments, etc are welcomed as always.


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